Mishka
by Lothithil
Summary: MacGyver gets a chance to live his Olympic dream, and finds intrigue and romance in Helsinki. Pre-history for 'Gold Rush'.
1. No Sweater

**Note from Loth:**  
Special Thank-Yous to **(((Beth)))** and **(((Trix)))** for input, encouragement, and a picture of Misha, the little golden bear that was chosen as mascot for the 1980 Summer Olympics.

**Mishka  
Chapter One: No Sweater**

_Maybe the first thing that most folks think of when you say 'Finland' is ice or reindeer, or even frostbite. It's true that you can find all of these things here, but there's a lot more to it than that._

_The first thing_ **I** _noticed when I got off the plane on my first trip to Finland was the air: soft and clear and around 19 degrees C, so the light jacket I was wearing when I had boarded in Denmark was quite adequate against the cool air._

_By the time I got myself on the shuttle bus that would take me to the hotel, I had that jacket off and my sleeves rolled up. The midday sun was warm and bright. I began to suspect that the extra sweater I'd packed in my luggage would not be needed._

_And by the time I got to the Ambassador Hotel, I began to suspect that I was seriously overdressed. The most popular item of clothing in downtown Helsinki was not the parka or balaclava… but the bikini!_

_I saw more skin in that short ride than I had during the last weekend I'd spent at home in LA—and I live right next to Venice Beach! A_ whole _lot of ..._ ahem_… healthy skin, I can tell you._

_When I got my eyes back inside my head…I picked up my luggage from the trolley. A duffel bag and a satchel—I always travel light—and headed inside. I needed to catch up with the team; most of them should have arrived on an earlier flight._

_I pulled the strap of my duffel over my shoulder, double-checking to make sure that the Olympic logo was visible. A feeling of elation rose in me as I brushed the neat stitches with my fingers. I'd always dreamed of this; being selected to participate in the international competition, the best of the best of all the countries in the world. Here I was—albeit under circumstances which childhood dreams would never fathom—I could still take a little satisfaction that I'd been chosen for this assignment, that I was capable and able. Not every agent in the DXS was in condition to compete in the Olympic Games._

_The situation was complicated. The Olympics were to be held in Moscow this year, and the U.S. and its allies had opted not to participate, boycotting the entire Summer Olympic season in protest of the invasion of Afghanistan by the U.S.S.R. 64 countries were refusing to support the Games._

_That meant a lot of people were not going to the Olympics this year. Disappointed candidates were scrambling for funds and sponsors, taking advantage of dual citizenship or private benefactors. Hundreds were going to attend the Games under the Olympic Flag, a way of voicing their protest while and yet still participate. Money and loyalty were only some of the kinds of currency being used to purchase a ticket._

_It is hard to give up a lifetime dream—I can entirely identify with that._

_It was a shame that so many athletes were forced to drop out of the proceedings, but in a way it was a blessing—for me, anyway—because of this development, the Olympic Committee was desperate for any and all the entries being submitted. I'd qualified to participate on paper before anyone had even seen me compete. Also, from what I understand from the briefing I had on the plane—courtesy of the European arm of the DXS—obtaining a fake passport and citizenship papers had been a shoo-in because countries were eager to absorb those who were willing to cross borders._

_So here I was, wearing the colors of The Netherlands. I'd been training with their Pentathlon team for three months, preparing for the Olympic Trials before the final competition in Moscow. I'd earned my position by helping their hockey team take a regional championship. That part had been easy—I'd learned to skate before I'd learned to walk, and I'd eaten, drank, and slept hockey until I was 15._

_But ice hockey wasn't an event in the Summer Olympics… even in frosty Finland. Not that there was any frost to be seen; the sun was bright in an endless sky, days longer than an American boy like me is used to. I wondered if I was going to need to set my watch to remind me when to sleep during these long Finnish days._

_I paused before I went into the hotel where the team—my team, that is—would be staying for the duration of the Olympic Trials. The sky was just too clear, the air too soft, to forsake without a final look. There was another quality in the air, here. Anticipation. Hope. Excitement. It filled me as I breathed in, and I felt as if I could fly._

**xoxoxo**

Anni looked up from her desk to see a tall, handsome man standing there. "Welcome to the Helsinki Ambassador Hotel. May I help you?"

"Yes," he smiled at her and looked pointedly at her name tag, "Anni. Hi. I was hoping that you could help me check in."

She saw five colored rings embroidered on his jacket. "You are with the Olympic team, I see. Which country?"

"The Netherlands."

"They checked in early this morning."

"I know... I missed my flight." He gave her a pleading look. "Please tell me you still have a reservation for me?"

She smiled mischievously at him. "I suppose... technically the athletes can check in anytime today... but I hope that you are not so late during your events... you will come in last!" She turned the register toward him so he could sign in, and then rotated it back to read his name. "MacGyver? That is an interesting name. Here is your key. Most of the rooms grouped together by country, but since you are late, we'll have to put you in a single on another floor." She eyed the satchel he had set on the desk. "I can get a porter to carry your luggage—"

"That's okay—I can handle it." MacGyver looped the satchel strap over his head and let it hang to his side. "Thanks anyway, Anni. Wish me luck!" he swung his duffel to his other shoulder and gave her another grin.

"Good luck!" She called after him, watching him walk away. The next customer had to tap her shoulder to get her attention. "Sorry..." she blushed as she signed them in.

The elevators were crowded with people waiting their turn, many of them fellow athletes; MacGyver noted half a dozen different countries represented by their flags or Olympic patches as he passed them and entered the stairwell. It would be a long climb to his floor, but after sitting in a cramped airplane for most of the day, he was glad to stretch his legs.

He reached his floor and wandered down the hall, passing different people, until he found the room that matched his key. But he couldn't unlock it—because there was someone trying to get into his room!

~~~tbc


	2. Wrong Key

**Chapter Two: Wrong Key**

**  
**MacGyver paused, alarmed by the sight of someone bent over the lock on the door, trying to force it open. The person - slight of build, wearing a track suit of red and gold - jiggled the doorknob violently, and then whacked the panel with a frustrated fist.

MacGyver realized it was a woman as he moved in closer. Standing directly behind her, he let the key in his fingers dangle in front of her face. "This might help."

She sucked in a startled breath and turned, hands cocked in a defensive position. Golden curls framed a face that was sweet even though she was scowling. "How did you get a key to my room?" she demanded in Russian.

_Muscovite,_ MacGyver thought. He stepped back, raising his hands to show he was harmless, the key looped over the thumb of his left hand. "I'm sorry… I don't understand," he said, regretting that his first words to her must be a lie. "But the reason that key doesn't work is because this is my room." He glanced at the key she had left in the lock, the color-coded plastic badge bearing the room number dangling. "I think, if you look again, you'll find that you're on the wrong floor."

She looked at the dangling key and then at the number on the door. MacGyver looked at her; the spots of color high on her cheeks contrasted with the creaminess of her skin. The red fabric of her jogging tunic made her blue eyes appear almost violet. She began to laugh, and her choler melted away to reveal a much prettier blush.

"I fear that I have made a great fool of myself," she said, in English. Though her accent was strong, her words were neatly enunciated and clear.

"I'll give you an eight," MacGyver said, smiling.

She laughed, and then pretended to be piqued. "Only an eight?! I am insulted! Surely I have earned a nine or a ten!"

"Eight and a half, then," MacGyver retrieved her key for her, placing it in her palm, "Extra credit for grace under pressure."

Her eyes danced with pleasure at his compliment. "Too bad it is not an event for competition! I might win the gold."

"You'd have to practice more," MacGyver said, "and the competition would be very stiff. You should see me in action—" he deliberately fumbled his own keys and dropped them, eliciting another laugh from her.

"I see," she laughed behind her hand. "You are very skillful at being clumsy!"

"I've been honing my talent for years." He picked up his keys. He felt a great reluctance to end this conversation. "I could help you find your room," he offered.

She gave a little gasp, as shocked by the suggestion; though she was smiling all the while she said, "I don't think that would be proper… we have just met! And I don't think my coach would approve of a strange man knowing my room."

"I already saw the number. I could try to forget it…"

"But if you did that," she said softly, "how would you know where to pick me up for dinner tonight?"

It was MacGyver's turn to look shocked as she smiled at him and walked away. She paused briefly by the stairwell to look back at him. He waved at her, feeling both foolish and delighted.

His key opened the door easily, and he stepped inside the dark room and closed the door. Then he leaned against it and let the back of his head thud on the panel. _MacGyver, you dummy. You forgot to ask her name!_

The lights flicked on without him touching them; he was not alone in the room. A man was sitting in a chair beside the lamp. With a pistol in his hand.

~~~tbc


	3. Wardrobe

**Chapter Three: Wardrobe**

"You're late, MacGyver." The man was already sliding the pistol into a shoulder holster as he spoke.

MacGyver grinned at him and tossed his duffel bag on the bed. "Hi, Pete. Blame Jansen—he kept us circling over the Baltic Sea until he was sure I could recite the Dutch national anthem from memory."

"He was just doing his job," Peter Thornton said. "After all, you're here to complete a mission… not to make passes at pretty Russian athletes. Was she?"

"Was she what?" MacGyver asked, blithely.

"Was she pretty?"

"Was _who_ pretty?"

"The girl who was trying to break down your door! Really, MacGyver—I could hear almost everything you two were saying!"

"Yeah?" MacGyver set his satchel on the bed and unzipped it, trying to cover the fact that he was blushing. "I don't remember…"

"Humph! Well, she sounded pretty." Pete walked to the door and turned the lock. "I don't have to remind you that you need to be careful, right? This mission is going to be very tricky…"

"Are you kidding?" MacGyver gestured to the track suit he was wearing. "The mission is going to be the easy part! The hard part is going to be making it through the Trials."

"You should meet your contact before the end of the Trials… you won't have to actually go on to Moscow--" Pete broke off when he saw the look on Mac's face. He went on more gently, "Mac, you realize that even if you _do_ win, it's out of the question for you to compete in the actual Games."

"I know, Pete. I wouldn't be here if not for the mission…" No amount of effort could completely keep a trace of bitterness out of MacGyver's voice. "… and the mission _**is**_ my first priority, I promise. But I've got to make it look like there is nothing more important than winning… or I'll stick out like a sore thumb!"

Pete nodded and watched in silence as MacGyver unpacked. In the closet, he found an array of clothes already hanging there… courtesy of the DXS. "Oh, **no**… a tux! _Peeeete…_" Mac ended with a petulant whine.

Pete held up a hand to forestall argument. "There's a formal dance scheduled on the first night of the Trials… you can't wear your tracksuit to that. _And_ because you also have to make several trips into the city, I brought you some appropriate clothes. And of course, this." He handed MacGyver a small envelope. Mac opened it and withdrew a key. "That goes to a locker out at the Finnlines Ferry service terminal. It contains new sets of passports, extra cash, and travel papers. In case you have to make a… a _hasty_ exit. That key looks like every other key to every other public locker in the country… if someone finds it, they'll never be able to tell where it goes."

"Good." Mac glanced at his watch. "I'd better go touch base with the coach… or I'll be running laps until the next Olympics!"

"Don't worry about Coach Maarten; he's been working with the DXS for many years—this is not our first Olympic op, you know—and he'll cover for you when you need to be elsewhere. But don't miss your events—"

"—Like I would!" MacGyver retorted dryly.

"—And don't miss your contact appointments! The man you are to meet is named Gorodisch. He works in the offices of the Red Army, and he's been a DXS informant for about a year."

"Only a year?" MacGyver raised an eyebrow. "His information is reliable?"

"Extremely. He provides the most sensitive material coming out of the USSR. But he is edgy and extremely shy—he has to be! The KGB is on the alert that there is a leak… but they can't figure out who or how. Anyway, before he will help us, he insists on having total control of the meetings. He's going to want to watch you for a while before he contacts you. So go to the meetings and wait patiently. When **he** feels comfortable, he'll make contact."

"Okay, okay… I got it, Pete! You gonna tell me how to run my races, too?"

"No, but I do have some pointers for you regarding your fencing… you really should keep the tip of your epée a few inches higher…."

"_**Hey!"**_ Mac gave Pete a playful scowl as the older man laughed at him. "Very funny."

Pete eyes were twinkling with amusement. "Anyway, don't worry about Coach now… your first contact is in about half an hour."

MacGyver sighed and turned toward the closet. "Which outfit am I supposed to wear for this one?"

Pete's grin broke into a wicked smile as he handed MacGyver a towel.


	4. Sauna

**Chapter Four: Sauna**

"You know, in Ancient Greece, the Olympians used to compete in the nude—" Pete was enjoying this way too much, MacGyver thought. "—to encourage an, um… 'aesthetic appreciation' of the male body."

"But Pete—"

"Sauna is a custom in Finland—one that they take very seriously, I might add. Everyone does it."

"Well, I don't appreciate having to wander around in public wearing nothing but my aesthetics," MacGyver growled, "even if everyone is doing it."

"Not 'in public'—at the Sauna Bar. The address is on the card. And it's only this once, Mac." Pete managed to school the smirk off of his face; he could see that his friend MacGyver was very disconcerted. "It's unlikely that he'll approach you this soon. So just go and enjoy the steam and relax. It is a wonderful experience."

MacGyver took the towel and card from Pete. "I've been in a sauna before, you know."

"Of course," Pete tapped his forehead as if to dislodge a thought, "a lot of Finnish and Swedish people settled in the Minnesota area—I knew that. Well, then—you'll know just what to do. Though a real Finnish sauna is a lot different than what we have back in the States… for one thing, it is a lot hotter! And then there's a whole system of etiquette that should be followed, unwritten rules to remember. Don't discuss politics or any weighty subjects while in the steam room. And avoid using honorifics when greeting people. And you have to come out and cool down several times—don't wear a bathing suit into the steam, either. Swimming pools that use water treatments containing chlorine—"

"The chlorine can become a vapor harmful to breathe—I know, Pete." Mac ran his fingers through his hair. "Are you going to tell me how to sweat, too?" he grumbled. "Maybe you want to come along and hold my hand?"

Pete snorted and turned toward the door, saying, "Ah. No thanks. I wouldn't be caught dead in running around naked in a place like that…"

"You— _turkey!_" MacGyver spun the towel into a limp rope and popped it toward Pete's retreating backside, making the older man dance aside with a chuckle.

Pete laughed and continued toward the door, backing up to avoid tempting MacGyver with a target. "Seriously, I would love to join you, Mac—but we can't be seen together or it might ruin your cover story. Anyway, I've got to be on a plane to Geneva tonight."

MacGyver's expression changed; annoyance gave way to surprise. "The peace talks? They are going on as scheduled despite the threats from Black Dove?"

"Yes. Ambassador Howell said that he finds the calls and letters disturbing, but that he won't back down because of a few vague threats. He says that the talks can't be canceled because of a lot of hot air."

"He doesn't know that Black Dove isn't bluffing." Mac was incredulous. "Hasn't he been briefed on what happened in North Africa?"

"He's been briefed, Mac. He's just not willing to allow himself to believe it is real or that it will happen to him."

"He ought to listen to _**you**_," Mac snorted angrily. "The entire delegation would have been wiped out if you hadn't managed to persuade them to change their venue at the last moment!"

Pete gave MacGyver a look. "And _**you**_ nearly got yourself cooked in that trap, trying to disarm the bomb." He shook his head. "It was _so_ unnecessary…the building was vacant!"

"I couldn't be certain of that--it hadn't been cleared--there wasn't time! And I told you, Pete, if I _could_ have disarmed it, there would have been clues about the person who made it. Bombs like that are very complex… and the people who make them--"

"-- are consistent, Mac, yes, I know all that--"

"They use the same materials and often leave signatures…"

"That's **not** your job anymore, Mac!" Pete cut his friend off sharply. "Didn't you have enough of that kind of excitement in Vietnam?"

MacGyver looked away. Pete sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Mac, just do me a favour, okay? Go to the meetings and look harmless and trustworthy. Try to win yourself a race or two. And until Demolitions is an official Olympic Event, don't try to disarm any bombs… for _**my**_ sake."

MacGyver didn't see how he could honestly make such a promise, so he let the subject drop. "I'll do my job."

"And so will I. My job is to get Ambassador Howell to listen to the facts. 'Cause I'm like you… I don't think this is a bluff."

~~~tbc


	5. When You're Hot

**Chapter Five: When You're Hot  
**

_Okay, so I was giving Pete a hard time about the sauna… actually I was looking forward to it. _

_I had been enjoying sauna with my teammates for months, as part of our physical training routine. But it was one thing to disrobe in the gym and quite another to mingle in public. Perhaps it is just one of those odd American hang-ups—but nudity is generally synonymous with vulnerability, and it's very difficult to relax when all I'm wearing is a length of terrycloth in a room full of strangers. _

_Still, I had a responsibility—so I sucked it up and hurried to the Sauna Bar. It wasn't far from the hotel, and I enjoyed the walk through the endless golden afternoon, even though it was actually closer to evening. _

_When I arrived, I received my next surprise: it was mixed couples' night at the Sauna Bar. _

Sigh._ I wished Pete had given me a larger towel._

The steam was so thick, it was like walking across the Golden Gate Bridge during a fog—except for the temperature. Mac was sweating even before he'd found an empty seat among the wooden benches lining the walls. He sat down, towel wrapped firmly around his waist, trying to breathe in the stiflingly hot atmosphere. Water condensed on the ceiling and dripped down on his head like warm rain, running in rivulets down the smooth walls.

People appeared as blurry shapes around him, barely distinguishable from one another in the thick, swirling air. MacGyver guessed that the temperature was higher than any sauna he'd been in before… it had to be almost 200 F.! Very soon the towel was off and he was leaning back against the dripping wall, breathing though his nose and mouth and feeling as if his very skin was yawning with an effort to draw air.

It was delicious. Mac quickly relaxed, modesty forgotten in the security of the anonymous steam. With eyes half-open, he circumspectly noted anything he could perceive of the faces of the people around him, but nobody seemed to be looking in his direction.

A woman walked close by, a colorful tattoo writhing down her hip and along her thigh as she swayed through the thick air. MacGyver decided it was time for some cooling down; he knotted his towel securely at his hip and swam carefully out of the steam room.

There was a very nice pool available to the guests for this purpose, surrounded by huge, airy ferns and equipped with a submerged bar providing a variety of beverages. MacGyver didn't stop, however, opting for the privacy of a shower—at least for now.

He passed the wall of foliage and stepped into a stall and hung up his towel. A motion sensor detected his presence and turned on the water automatically, sending a refreshing wash of cold water over his steaming skin. He gasped with the shock, then leaned with his hands braced on either side of the shower head, letting the water course over his head and through his hair.

Water dripping out of his hair, he walked back toward the steam room for another sweat, but paused beside a drinking fountain near the pool-bar. The woman he had seen earlier that day, the Russian woman who had accidentally tried to get into his room, was sitting at one of the floating tables, talking animatedly in her native language with two other women.

MacGyver understood what they were saying well enough; DXS training expected their international couriers to learn as many languages as possible. MacGyver had studied Russian, among others, although he understood it better than he spoke it. And he often found it useful to pretend not to understand: people would say the most amazing things in front of him when they thought he didn't know what they were saying.

It crossed his mind to go up to her and ask her name—until he remembered his disrobed state. Wishing heartily that he was wearing more than a flimsy towel, he walked past the pool, thinking invisible thoughts.

The women's talk suspended as he went by, and then resumed in loud whispers, accompanied by giggling. Flushing, he clutched his towel and tried to maintain a dignified pace as he returned to the blessed anonymity of the steam room.

_Somewhere, flying high above the petty earth, Peter Thornton was laughing at me—I just knew it. I vowed that I will have my revenge!_


	6. A Tail Or Two

**Chapter Six: A Tail Or Two  
**

_I was a little alarmed when I looked at the clock. I hadn't realized how much time I'd spent in the sauna. Just as Pete had said, nobody had attempted to contact me—nobody with secret information to trade, anyway._

_Practicing diplomacy off the cuff—without any cuffs on—I managed to escape from the sauna, if not with virtue intact, at least as much as I had when I'd arrived. Thank goodness that the Finn regard sauna as sacrosanct—not a place for picking up dates or romantic encounters—the staff was sympathetic and let me leave by the back door._

_As I walked through the deliciously cool air, heading back in the direction of the hotel, I had to remind myself that it was going on evening. Sunlight lingered beyond the reach of hours. My stomach confirmed what my wristwatch said: it was definitely late. _

_I heard footsteps behind me, then… softly pattering along the pavement. I turned a corner and slipped into the first open shop I came to, mustering interest in the array of charm jewelry nestled in boxes of black velvet. I could see clearly out the shop window. Whoever was following me would be in sight in a few seconds…_

_xoxox_

Natalya hurried back to the hotel, cursing herself softly for losing track of time while visiting with her comrades. She was afraid that the man she had met—that she had impulsively asked to dinner—would think that she had stood him up. Seeing him at the Sauna Club had been a shock; the girls had teased her mercilessly when they noticed the flush on her cheeks as they'd watched him walk past. Karin wanted to follow him into the steam, but Natalya had put her foot down. She'd seen him first, and while a good Soviet believed in equality in all things—when it came to matters of the heart, one could be selfish.

She was about halfway back to the hotel when she noticed the strange man. She was waiting for the traffic to pause, and had kneeled down to re-lace her running shoes when she saw, down the street the way she had already come, a man wearing a coat and hat that were out-of-season. She wouldn't have thought twice about him, except she realized that she had seen him earlier—near the entrance of the Sauna Bar. He had been lounging outside, as if waiting for someone.

Wishing now that she'd stayed with the safety of the group, instead of running off on her own, Natalya continued on her way. She saw him again at the next traffic stop, closer this time. His hands were in his pockets, and she could see the sweat dripping down his jaw from the effort of keeping up with her on a warm evening.

Nerves gave way to pique; who did this man think he was, following her? Clenching her fists, she looked around for a policeman. She saw the man stop, turning as if to examine something in a shop window. A pale face reflected in the glass, and Natalya saw him clearly—and he saw her.

She broke into a flat run, burning up the pavement. Running was one of the things she did—and if the Trials had been held that night in the streets of Helsinki, Natalya Leonevka Vistkaya would have taken home the gold medal.

xoxox

MacGyver saw her run by from his vantage inside the curio shop. He recognized her as she sped past, and feeling foolish for his paranoia, he stepped out of the shop to call her back. He hesitated, realizing he still didn't know her name. "Dang it," Mac muttered softly. He turned—and collided with a man in a trench coat.

"Excuse me—" MacGyver said, catching the man by the arms before they both spilled to the ground. The man's hat came off; blond hair spilled out, damp with sweat. Through the fabric of the coat, Mac felt an irregular heavy shape, right about the place where a shoulder holster might rest.

The man shook off Mac's hands, muttering something guttural and indistinct. He bolted into the street, dodging cars as he cut across in his haste. MacGyver stared after him until he saw him turn down an alley and disappear.

The man's hat had fallen to the pavement. MacGyver picked it up and turned it over in his hands, thoughtfully. _Was he following me, or the girl?_

The Games hadn't officially begun yet, and the stakes were already getting higher.

xoxox

The man in the trench coat ran down the alley and along another street before slowing to a walk to avoid drawing attention to himself. He continued for several blocks, then ducked into an empty side street and slipped into a deep doorway. He was certain that MacGyver hadn't followed him, but he had to be sure that no-one else was tailing him. The American might not be working alone.

This was a man who cultivated his paranoia carefully, and that was how things had to be. In his line of work, people who weren't carefully paranoid weren't in business for very long—they became rapidly dead. By appearances, he hadn't been followed after all, so perhaps the intelligence he had on this MacGyver was correct—but he still waited for nearly an hour before he left his hiding place.

As he waited, his mind continued to churn. There wasn't supposed to be any contact on this meeting. But why had MacGyver slipped out the back way from the sauna bar? How did he know someone would be outside? And how did he manage to intercept him in the street? It was the girl, he thought ruefully. He must have been watching the girl…

Clever of MacGyver, the man thought, to get the girl involved. He couldn't have been in country for more than a few hours, and already he had recruited assistance. It didn't jibe with what he knew of the man, to endanger an innocent woman in all this intrigue. If she was innocent, that is.

Now that he thought about it, she might be the arm of yet another net cast to try to close in on the elusive Gorodisch. Perhaps she was using MacGyver—and it was he who was the innocent pawn in this game.

They'd seen his face, so he would have to do something about that. The next encounter was scheduled for the next day, but he didn't want to wait that long. He wanted his eyes on this suspicious pair—to see what they were really about, and who was working with them—or against.

Regardless, it was time to get out of the street and on to the next facet of the plan. The days here seemed to last forever, but time never sat still. He slipped out of the doorway, shedding his coat like a snake abandoning a useless skin.


	7. Relative Difficulties

**Chapter Seven: Relative Difficulties****  
**

Natalya slowed down when she reached the block where the Ambassador Hotel stood. There were many people moving about, and she felt safer once she was among them. Turning to see if she had been followed, she saw no one who looked menacing or particularly intent on her.

There was a small but meticulously manicured garden in the midst of the courtyard near the front of the hotel. She found an empty bench next to a fountain and sat down. Suddenly tired now that the adrenaline had faded from her system, she laid her head on her knees and willed her heartbeat to return to normal.

She felt embarrassed that she had run away in such a fright. Jumping at shadows… running from strangers! Where was her dignity, her cool-headed Russian discipline? She drew several deep breaths and raised her head after her calm was restored.

When she looked up, however, her carefully reconstructed demeanor melted as she recognized the man that was walking toward her. There was a certain hesitance was in his step, but no mistaking the relief in his face when he met her eyes. He called out, "Natalya!"

"Uncle Mikhail!" She ran to him, letting herself be caught in his arms. He hugged her tightly as she buried her face in his shoulder; his eyes, however, scanned the area around them nervously, checking the faces of the people near them.

"My little Natasha! I have found you at last! You weren't in your room..."

"What are you doing here? Surely you didn't come all this long way to see me at Trials?" She made a playful fist and punished his arm. "Do you doubt that I'll score high enough to make it to compete in the Games when they come to Moscow?"

"I am sure that you will triumph!" he said quickly, kissing both her cheeks. "But a chance to… to come to Helsinki! I wanted to lend you my support."

"A chance to come to Helsinki? Or a chance to leave Moscow?" Natalya gave him a look that asked more questions. When he didn't answer, she added in a low voice, "Do you still have trouble, Uncle Mikhail?"

"Not here, Tasha." He took her elbow gently, but firmly, and began to steer her back toward the hotel.

Something was wrong. She let him guide her, but she could smell the fear coming from him, and she began to notice his appearance; his clothes were crumpled and not too fresh, the buttons of his waistcoat were uneven. His beard, usually neatly trimmed, was a little ragged. His coat was too heavy for Helsinki's mild weather. Perhaps that was why he was sweating so much.

Pulling her arm from his grasp, she threaded it through his elbow and began talk lightly about her trip and the things she'd seen in Helsinki, to make appearances seem normal. She had her key ready by the time they reached her room, and she was relived that her roommate was gone, probably to dinner.

She let her uncle in and closed the door firmly. "Very well… now tell me what is going on," she demanded.

Mikhail Stefanov Lavrin swept through the room first, making sure they were alone. "Natalya… I'm sorry to put you in this position! I had meant to go to Switzerland… but there were complications… they were waiting for me! They nearly stopped me in the airport, but I managed to get aboard a different flight at the last minute. I—I knew you were here, so I came—I'm sorry." He hung his head, his anguish undisguised. "I did not want to put you in this position, my girl. But—I need your help."

"_My_ help?"

He went to her and caught her hands in his, whispering fiercely, "I want to leave Russia… to defect!"

The word shocked Natalya into silence for a long moment. "Defect?! But why? You are a botanist, uncle. Your work is so important… think of the good you can do the people—"

"I do want to help my people! Russian people—blood of my blood! But I cannot work in here anymore! My research… they mean to take my work and use it to… to create such suffering!" He pulled away from her and began to pace the room anxiously.

"Uncle, you're not making any sense."

Since she'd been a little girl, barely tall enough to peer over the top of his worktable, Natalya had been her Uncle Mikhail's pet. She remembered helping him wash out his test tubes and bottles, her smaller hands fitting inside the narrow necks more easily than his. He always encouraged her to ask questions, to chase the answers until they were found.

Brother to her mother, Mikhail Lavrin was a dedicated student in the study of plants, for their nutritional and medicinal value. He'd gone to school to learn botanical pharmacology, but had changed the direction of his career to pursue research. He had already contributed to the enhancement of agriculture, increasing the yield and quality of food production within the Soviet Union. His accomplishments had earned him a private laboratory with an adequate budget, and his name was once spoken of in relation to a future Nobel Prize.

Now he was disheveled, uprooted like one of his plants, and the look in his eyes touched Natalya with cold fear. He began to explain to her what had happened, why he was come so far without luggage or papers, to beg for any help he could find.

His dedication to his work, and his abhorrence for politics, had made his life complicated. Approached by the Soviet War Department, he had been appalled to learn that the process he had designed to improve the world was to be twisted into a way to cripple the resources of a given country—any target designated as an 'enemy'.

"I refused instantly, but they—the KGB are very persistent." He let a sigh shudder out, and Natalya was further alarmed to feel him trembling. "If I can reach Switzerland… or any other country where I can find asylum, they won't be able to touch me. And you and your mother will be safe. They wouldn't dare to try anything against the wife and daughter of Leonev Vistkaya—a respectable administrator." He caught her hands again, squeezing her fingers tightly. "Please, little Natasha! Please help me."

"Of—of course, Uncle Mikhail." Natalya felt tears burning her eyes to see her favorite uncle so reduced and frightened. "I will help in any way I can—but honestly I haven't the slightest idea what I can do!"

A knock on the door send both of them spinning in alarm. But it wasn't a menacing sound; only the normal tapping plea for attention.

"Are you expecting someone?" Mikhail whispered.

"No—yes! Oh dear," Natalya raised a hand to her mouth, speaking softly through her fingers. "I had forgotten… my dinner date!"

"Tell them to go away, please, Natasha. We have much to talk about."

"All right." She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Before she turned the lock, she called out. "Who is it, please?"

"It's MacGyver."

She turned the lock, glancing back at her uncle. He had backed into the shadows of the closet, pulling the doors closed to hide himself completely.

The door opened slowly. MacGyver stood back, sensing her nervousness and suddenly wondered if he had mistaken her invitation. She did seem distracted, but she was wearing a smile and seemed glad to see him.

"MacGyver. I had—I forgot that I had—other plans for dinner tonight." She dropped her eyes, glancing away before adding, "I-I have to meet my teammates. The Trials start tomorrow…"

MacGyver nodded, disappointed but understanding. "I get it… and I should probably be doing the same. But please say that I can take you to dinner another time. Maybe tomorrow?"

"I—I don't know." She was flushed with some emotion already, and MacGyver could tell that she was extremely anxious. But she seemed genuine when she added, "I hope so."

As she began to push the door shut, MacGyver raised his hand, not quite catching the door, but she stayed her movement long enough for him to ask, "Wait! What's your name?"

She smiled at him, remembering why she had so boldly invited him after knowing him for only a few moments; there was a kind of gentleness about him that didn't fit with his obvious strength and confidence--yet at the same time, it seemed quite perfect. "I am Natalya," she said softly. "Natalya Leonevka Vistkaya."

"A pleasure." He leaned forward, cocking his head to look at her through the narrow opening. "Until… until I see you again. Good night."

The door closed softly, and MacGyver heard a firm click as the door was locked.

As he made his way back to the elevator, he passed a man standing near the vending machines. He was pushing a one of the buttons, frowning when nothing happened. MacGyver nearly stopped to offer to help… but before he could say anything, the man balled up his fist and whacked the corner of the machine. A can of soda rolled into the slot. MacGyver continued on his way, thinking about Natalya.

The man beside the vending machine watched him until the elevator swallowed him up. He picked up the can of soda and dropped it in the trash can before returning to his surveillance of the door to Natalya's room.


	8. Equine Diplomacy

**Chapter Eight:** **Equine Diplomacy **

MacGyver found his dinner in the company of his team, grouped in one corner of the hotel restaurant. Everyone in the room exuded an air of excitement and energy, none more so than the Hollanders. Tomorrow was the beginning of the Olympic Trials, and they were exuberantly confident.

Coach Maarten permitted his delinquent American transplant to eat his dinner before he corralled him to fill him in on the things he'd missed at the team meeting; in spite of the coach's clandestine knowledge of MacGyver's true purpose in being in Helsinki, the man was still the Coach and he wanted his team to win. The Equestrian Trial was one of MacGyver's strengths, and he wanted as much of the man's commitment as he could get to help the team score an early lead in overall points.

MacGyver gave him all of his attention. He happily endured the joking and jostling of his teammates for missing the flight and arriving so late. When the coach lifted his watch and gave them all a stern look, they knew it was time to disperse. MacGyver plucked a pair of apples from the dessert cart before retreating to his room, his schedule tucked under his arm.

The hall on MacGyver's floor was deserted, except for a bellboy who was trying to steer an overloaded luggage cart down the hallway. Mac stood aside and let him inch past, munching on one of his apples; the other he slipped into a pocket as he fished out his key.

As he let himself into his room, he worried that he would be too excited to sleep; the light outside the window beckoned to him—but the hour was deceptively late. He pulled the heavy drapes closed and set his alarm clock carefully before preparing for bed.

He was soundly asleep moments after his head hit the pillow, and he didn't move for six hours.

xoxox

Morning called MacGyver to wakefulness before the travel alarm could try. He surged out of bed with anticipation, and quickly showered and dressed, eager to get down to the place where his team would be warming up for the days' events. Before he left the room, he dug his Swiss Army knife out and made one last preparation—his secret weapon! He cleaned the knife and put it on the nightstand, and then he was out of his room and jogging down the corridor.

He passed athletes from other teams in the corridors, on their way toward different places but with the same purposes in mind. Everyone wore the same expressions; almost painfully enthusiastic smiles—some more like a grimace than a good humor—but mostly just tremendously excited. There was also laughter and tears, nervousness and fear.

The room was locked, but MacGyver only had to wait for about ten minutes for Coach Maarten to appear, a few other early risers trailing in his wake. Shortly the room was busy with men and women in vigorous exercise, warming up and preparing for their events. Maarten watched everyone closely, warning them not to over-do it, to save their best effort for the Trials.

"Watch your positioning! Carry those follow-throughs! Breathe!" He let them work for nearly an hour, and then he called a halt and brought them into a huddle in the center of the room.

Everyone was expecting another high-voltage pep talk, or even one of the coach's famous patriotic harangues. Maarten merely looked at them all, and then clasped the hands of the two athletes beside him. They grasped the hands of the teammates standing next to them, and so on, until the whole group was joined. MacGyver's left hand was taken by Agnes, the delicate Dutch artist of the parallel bars, while his right was nearly crushed by Hudsk, their boxing champion.

They stood together in silence for a time, one long spiraling unbroken circle. Maartin spoke only two words to prepare them, but into those two words he poured all his confidence and pride.

"You're ready."

xoxox

_I don't know if I ever mentioned this before… but I had an uncle who _knew_ horses-- knew as in "with a capital **K**"_ knew_. I think they call them horse whisperers—animal psychologists would be the scientific term, I guess—but that didn't really apply to Uncle Dan. He didn't go to school to learn how to do it, and he never actually whispered to the horses; although he did speak to them in a calm, firm voice. Mostly he just looked at the horse, and the horse just looked at him, and after a while the horse would settle down and obey him. It's like they could read each other's minds._

_It seemed like magic to me when I was a boy. Later I learned more about animals and how they are trained, and how could sense things about people. There wasn't much of a trick to it—the horse knows what it's supposed to do, if it's trained properly. My uncle just had a way of letting the horse know that **he** knew, too, and then he'd let the horse do what it was supposed to do. _

_Not that there weren't tricks involved. There were—and Uncle Dan had shared those secrets with me. _

_I was entered in the Pentathlon, a contest modeled after the skills that a 19th Century soldier was supposed to have: marksmanship with a pistol, swordsmanship, swimming, running cross-country, and – as you've probably guessed by now – riding a horse through a difficult course. To make things interesting, the riders and the horses were absolute strangers to one another—lots were drawn 20 minutes before the event to see who got to buck who off into the nearest briar patch._

_As I stood there in the beautiful soft morning light, looking at the horse that I'd drawn—a tall, black beast with the gleam of hellfire in his eyes and hooves that looked sharp enough for surgical procedures—I whispered a silent 'Thank You' to good ol' Uncle Dan. _

_I had a feeling I was gonna need all the tricks he'd taught me— just to survive my meeting with this horse!_

xoxox

The day started out in ceremony, a show for the spectators who had gathered to support and observe the athletes as they strove to qualify for the official Games. There was a good crowd in the arena where the equestrian venue. Hardly a seat was empty, and many people stood on the risers where they could see, binoculars winking in the sunlight. Others sat along the green verge on blankets. Many had brought picnic lunches, planning to stay all day for the sports. Hawkers and concession vendors paced through the crowd, selling food, beverages, and souvenirs. There were children everywhere, running dizzy with the excitement of the day, putting their parents' patience to trial.

As the first event was being prepared and the horses led out to meet their riders, the noise of the crowed subsided slightly as the people took interest in the beautiful animals.

The riders waited for the horses were paraded past. Lots had been drawn, and though they were informed which horse they would ride, the riders were not allowed to actually touch their mounts before the event began. After all, the point of the equestrian event was to see how a rider could handle an unfamiliar horse over rough terrain.

The athletes watched the horses, concentrating on the beast that they were expected to dominate, persuade, and cajole. The horses, for the most part, ignored the riders. The movement and noise of the crowd made some of the animals skittish; others paced behind their leads and appeared more interested in the grass than the spectacle.

But while the horses were being led in the circuit, a curious change came over each them. Ears swiveled, nostrils flaring questioningly each time an animal went by one particular figure standing among the waiting athletes, a tall man who was indistinguishable from the other athletes, except for the attention of the horses. He stood with his hands behind his back, watching the animals but making no other movements, mirroring the other potential riders.

The horses were fascinated by him. They tugged at their leads, trying to go closer. Their handlers quickly corrected them, keeping them in line and moving.

MacGyver watched the horses. The proud black was almost dancing, hooves tearing at the turf, his nervous handler clinging to the end of his lead. The beast kept swinging its head toward the riders, toward him, as if it somehow knew that MacGyver was his, and he was eager to run for him.

When it was time for his turn at the obstacle course, MacGyver confidently approached his black demon-horse, his hands low and outstretched. One hand reached unerringly for a spot on the horse's neck, under the flowing mane; he scratched the spot gently. His other hand was cupped, and the horse instantly put his nose in his hand, making the bits of apple in his palm disappear.

MacGyver pulled himself smoothly onto the horse's back, pleased to feel the warmth and energy of the animal radiating up through his legs and making his heart beat faster.

"Come on, boy," MacGyver said to the horse as they waited for the signal to begin, "there's more where that came from—and it's all yours as soon as we put this course behind us."

The horse swung his ears toward the sound of Mac's voice, then back to the fore, ready to begin. When the signal was given, they moved together as a single creature, streaking across the turf with grace and speed, over, around and through the obstacles as if they were mere scenery.

The flag fell, the crowd roared with approval. The judges posted their scores.

MacGyver patted the horse's neck as the beast tried to turn its head back to chew on his pocket. He grinned as his mount disposed of the evidence of Mac's trick.

_Thanks, Uncle Dan!_


	9. A Familiar Ring

**Chapter Nine: A Familiar Ring**

MacGyver braced himself to endure the rough affection of his fellow Dutch teammates. The black horse, however, didn't seem to appreciate the attention; it laid its ears back and stretched out its long neck. MacGyver waved them back until the handler could come up and take the reins from him.

MacGyver patted the horse's neck and quarter. "Thanks, old man. You ran a good course. Hey," he said to the handler before the man could lead the horse away, "can you do me a favor? This boy likes apples… can you give him one for me. He's earned a treat."

_"Da."_ The man mumbled. He had his head down, a hat pulled out to shade his eyes. Something about his jawline and the square of his shoulders caught MacGyver's attention.

He tried to see the man's face, but the man kept the horse's head between them. "Hey, have I seen you around before?"

"It is possible, sir," the man shrugged, turning to lead the horse away.

Black wasn't interested in following him, however. Stubborn as a mule, the horse refused to be moved, jerking his head sharply to attempt to pull the reins from the handler's gloved hands. The powerful, sudden movement jarred the man, and his hat slid off his head, revealing a shock of blond hair. He hastily caught it and shoved it back on, but MacGyver had his eyes then.

MacGyver recognized the man he had seen on the street the night before. Could this man be his contact? He could just as easily be KGB.

He quickly diverted his attention to the horse. "What's a'matter, boy? Don'cha want some apples? Eh? Come on—we've got to clear out for the next rider." He waved to his teammates. "Tell Coach Maartin that I'll report to him in half an hour," he called out as he took the reins back from the handler. "Let me help you with this demon. His teeth are sharper than a Swiss knife."

There was a warning gleam in the man's eye, but the lazy lilt of his voice betrayed nothing. "As you like, sir. Stables are that way," He pulled off his rawhide gloves and pointed, the sun gleaming off of a ring on his left hand; then, still staring toward the sables, he took the ring off of his third finger and slipped it on the right.

MacGyver felt a flutter of excitement in his belly. That was the correct response to the password Pete had given him. This man was his contact!

The horse permitted MacGyver to lead him about halfway to the stable; then it caught the scent of alfalfa and oats, and it was MacGyver who was being led. He jogged to keep from being dragged into the stable.

The stables were neatly constructed, clean with fresh straw on the floor and windows letting in air and sunlight. MacGyver had lived in apartments that could have fit inside just one of the stalls. Hooks were situated high along the walls, for hanging tackle and equipment, all of which gleamed with good maintenance.

Black passed a number of open stalls, and then plunged into the one which had been appointed to him. "Knows where's he's going, doesn't he?" MacGyver said, releasing the reins before he could be dragged all the way to the bin.

"Horses have good memories. Not so much, men." The man made a slow, casual turn, looking to see if anyone was nearby. No one was visible, but there were too many places where one could hide and listen. "Men are distracted, by what they see, by what they hear. Horses have focus, yes? They know what they want, and they like things that remain the same."

A young groom entered the other end of the stable, leading a Clydesdale that was so big it looked as if it could have eaten the boy in three bites. The handler motioned MacGyver to follow him into the stable, out of sight.

"We can't talk now," the man said to MacGyver in an undertone. He clipped a lead to the black's headstall as the horse began to tear at a pile of alfalfa. He drew back his hand quickly, surveying his fingers. "I am Gorodisch. I will be in touch. Don't look for me—I will find _you_ when it is time." He began to vigorously brushing the black from shoulder to tail with a coarse brush, leaving the end with the teeth for later.

MacGyver swallowed his questions, keeping his attention on the animal between them. After giving the horse a final pat on the flank, he turned away and made his way back to the grandstands. He was passed by another handler leading a horse, and turning his head to follow their movement, he saw Gorodisch slip skillfully out of the stables to lose himself in the mass of spectators.

MacGyver intended to find his coach and report, and then enjoy the rest of the day's ceremonies. But as he walked past the field, he saw Natalya standing next to her horse, a petite Arabian. Her jumpsuit stood out brilliantly red against the animal's creamy colored hide. He paused and watched her pull on her helmet and leap smoothly into the saddle.

She handled the horse expertly though the course. MacGyver admired her grace and confidence. He cheered with the rest of the crowd as the judges delivered favorable marks on her ride. He waited to see if she would come his way afterward, but she was swallowed up in a circle of red jumpsuits as her team delivered their enthusiastic congratulations.

MacGyver decided in that moment exactly how he wanted to spend the rest of his day. Pushing himself off of the fence, he went to execute his plan.

xoxoxox

Natalya wanted to stay and support her fellow teammates as they each went through their own Trials, but the drama unfolding secretly in her room at the hotel, of her uncle and his wishes to defect to the West, distracted her sufficiently that she excused herself and returned to the Ambassador. She didn't hurry. She didn't really want to face the problems waiting for her there. How was she going to be able to help her uncle? She had no way to get papers for him, and only a little money to offer. She'd give every ruble she had to help him—but she knew it wouldn't be enough.

So she walked slowly through the gardens, her excitement from the games turning to clammy anxiety as she passed through the banks of flowers. Yesterday they had appeared grand and beautiful; now they seemed garish and insincere.

Something colorful drew her attention as she walked; a bright red sphere rolled unevenly across her path, curving in an eccentric orbit to rest at her feet. She bent down to pick it up. It was an apple.

As she straightened up with the apple in her hand, another came wobbling along faster, missing her foot by several inches. The bushes up ahead rustled and parted, and MacGyver stepped out. He had an apple in his hand, which he was tossing up and catching deftly.

"Excuse me… have you seen my—yes! You found them!"

Natalya chuckled. She scooped up the second apple and held both up. "I was wondering about these. Being as there are no fruit trees in this garden."

"I was practicing. Here… throw 'em." He held up his free hand to catch.

He caught the first one in his left hand, and when she threw the second, he tossed the one in his right back to her. Surprised, she caught it by reflex.

"I said throw it." MacGyver grinned at her.

She did, and he threw another apple at her in he same instant. She caught it again, laughing more freely. This time she threw it before he expected it, and he tossed one apple up, almost awkwardly, in order to free a hand to catch it as it arched toward him. Then he had to toss the other to catch the one as it descended. Soon he was juggling the apples desperately, almost dropping them but never quite. After a few passes, Natalya realized that he was in complete control.

"Very good!" she applauded lightly. "Pity this isn't an event at the Olympics! You are very good."

"You think this is good, wait until you taste my fruit salad," MacGyver said, his eyes on the apples. He caught them all quickly and gave her an earnest look. "You _will_ have lunch with me, right?"

"I don't know," she said, with mock coyness. "I think the apples will be a little too bruised to eat."

"It makes them sweeter," he came back, smiling as they fell into step together.

"And what makes you think that apples are what I want?"

MacGyver shrugged. "The horses like 'em."


	10. Souvenir

**Chapter Ten: Souvenir **

"I need to change." Natalya said, indicating her Olympic uniform.

"I'm not sure I want to let you out of my sight," MacGyver said. "I've been trying to spend some time with you since you tried to break into my room."

Natalya gave an exasperated gasp. "I did not! An innocent mistake…" her protests ceased as she saw him laughing. "Oh, you!"

They had intended to change their clothes, but somehow their feet led them past the hotel and into the city. After a few blocks MacGyver's apples fell prey to their appetites, and then they were walking along streets lined with the carts of vendors taking advantage of the burgeoning crowds attracted by the Trials to sell their wares.

They bought porilainen and cabbage rolls on one street corner, and munched as they walked among the tourists, two people in a crowd but completely tuned in to each other.

MacGyver finished his last roll in a large bite, trying not to get any of the savoury juice on his jumpsuit.

Natalya glanced at him with amusement. "Hungry?"

"They're good!" MacGyver wiped his hands with the napkin. "I could wish to eat like this more often. Sometimes, I travel so much, I feel as if I live out of vending machines." He reached playfully for the second half of Natalya's porilainen, she twisted aside to keep it out of his hands.

"Hey! I'm still a growing boy!"

"They're too good to share, even with a friend!" Natalya danced out of his reach again. "Buy me a pastry and I'll let you have a bite."

"Deal."

They came to a cart festooned with Olympic flags. Trays of charms and trinkets lay on display, and Natalya bent over them. "These are so adorable. Do you know Misha?"

"The friendship bear? Yeah, it's the official mascot for the Olympics."

"He is also a folk legend in my country. It makes me proud when I see him." She lightly touched one of the golden pins. "A very fitting symbol for the occasion."

"Very fitting. But I thought it was called 'mishka'."

"Misha is a familiar name… er," she searched for the right word in her mind, "a nickname. In Russia, when you call a friend's name with affection, you sometimes shorten it and add a, um… suffix to soften the sound."

"So your friends call you… 'Natasha'?"

"Friend and family, yes."

"What would they call me?"

"MacGyver." Natalya thought it over for a moment. "'Masha'. 'Mashanka', perhaps." She laughed at the look on his face. "Perhaps not. It does not suit you."

"Just call me 'Mac'. And I'll call you…" Mac picked up one of the trinkets, the same one that she had caressed with a fingertip, and pinned it on the lapel of her tunic. "Natalie."

Natalya smiled. "I like it. You may call me Natalie." She covered the pin with her fingers, tracing the tiny colorful stars on its engraved belt. "Beautiful…" She saw MacGyver digging into a pocket to pay for the jewelry. "But I couldn't accept…"

The vendor waved off MacGyver's money. "For the lady—no charge! Free for competitors!" He pointed at their clothes; both were still clad in their Olympic jumpsuits. "Official Mascot for Olympics. Friendly Mishka!" The man spoke loudly enough so that the nearby shoppers could hear and be attracted by his patriotic generosity. "For the gentleman, also free." He placed another pin in MacGyver's palm. "Wear them in good health and luck!"

"Thank you." Natalya and MacGyver chorused, stepping back as several tourists surged forward to obtain their own souvenir trinkets.

MacGyver laughed as they sauntered away. "That guy's a real salesman!"

Natalya stroked her pin again and met MacGyver's eyes with a soft expression. "Thank you, MacGyver. I can't tell you how much I needed…" she hesitated, rethinking her words before adding, simply, "how much I needed your kindness."

"I meant to be kinder, but that salesman took the wind out of my sails." MacGyver joked, but he took her hand in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. She didn't let go, and they walked together for several minutes in silence.

"You ready for a real meal, now? Or are they likely to come looking for you?"

Natalya withdrew her hand suddenly, a guilty look on her face. "What do you mean? Who is looking for me?!"

MacGyver stepped back, surprised by her violent reaction. "Just that this is the first day of the Trials… I thought your coach might have given you a curfew…"

Natalya relaxed; she nearly sagged. "Oh." MacGyver took hold of her shoulders to steady her. "I'm—I'm sorry. I—I must be tired. But yes, I do want a meal. But I absolutely must freshen up and change." She looked toward the hotel, lost in the distance of winding streets and milling tourists. Her expression was one of reluctance. She obviously didn't want to go back to the hotel.

"Natalie. What's wrong?" MacGyver looked down into her face, her eyes blue and violet as they picked up the colors of her jumpsuit.

"I—" She began, her breath catching as she fought with herself not to speak. "I'm just nervous. Please. Let's go back to the hotel."

MacGyver nodded, offering his hand to her again. She accepted with a grateful smile.

If anyone had any strange thoughts about seeing athletes from two different countries walking hand-in-hand, they did not voice them aloud.


	11. Fenced In

**Chapter Eleven: Fenced In**

MacGyver winced as the buzzer sounded again. He frowned down at the point of the thin sword which bowed as it pressed against the double-padded vest just to the left of his heart. He glanced up to see a flash of white teeth as his opponent smiled within the cage of his visor before they backed away from each other.

They each turned toward their left, waiting to move on to their next match. Every competitor faced all the other competitors only once. Each match lasted a minute; the first fencer to score a point won instantly.

MacGyver didn't let his losses discourage him. He faced his next opponent, knowing that the man was just as tired as he was, had faced just as many competitors as he had, and was probably just as determined to win. As soon as the next match began, Mac feinted an overanxious attack, which was parried with a touch too much confidence. When the riposte came, MacGyver sidestepped it with unexpected speed. He reached low and touched the point of his épée low on the right side of his opponent's vest.

MacGyver's adversary, a Frenchman, yanked off his visor with a frustrated movement, but the bow and handshake he exchanged with MacGyver were genuinely respectful.

When the round ended, MacGyver returned to his team station, shaking out his arms that were numb after the constant jarring of clashing swords. Coach Maartin tossed him a grin along with a towel to mop the sweat from his face.

"Good win! But you use your energy too quickly! You'll have nothing left for the rest of your matches if you keep sprinting like that."

MacGyver nodded. "I know… but some of those guys fence like – for real! I'm glad for all this padding!" He patted his chest. "Besides, they've got to be getting tired too. I imagine by the end of the next set of matches, everyone's going to be dragging their foils as if they're broadswords."

"Don't you count on it!" Maartin slapped Mac on the back and left him panting on the bench as he passed out more towels and advice to his other gasping and sweating athletes.

_I was tired – but I was thoroughly enjoying the competition. Fencing wasn't a skill that a man could often find use for in this day and age, but the practice did sharpen a guy's reflexes. I was finding out quickly that I wasn't as fast as some of the lighter-built, whipcord athletes competing here, but I was longer in the arm than most of them. I think I __was__ a little faster than they gave me credit for, too – at least at first glance. I do look more like a hockey player than a fencer. They were learning now, and I __was__ pretty sure that the next few __matches__were__ gonna be a lot more difficult. _

MacGyver grinned. _I love the challenge of one-on-one dueling_ – _when __there's__ nothing more at stake than points, that is, _he reflected._ I'll take fencing over shooting any day._

Of course, that was tomorrow's competition: target shooting. It had been a point to this assignment that Mac hac nearly balked at._ I hate guns. I look at a gun and all I can think about is Jessie – how much I miss him and how unfair it is that he's dead – because of a stupid mistake with a gun. __My__ mistake._

_It's been a lotta years since that happened, but I'm still losing friends to guns; Vietnam didn't do anything to change my point of view. I saw too much death there, and I learned that it isn't just guns that devour lives. I came away from that war with just as many scars on the inside as on the outside, but I also learned a few other things._

_There are men who fight – who will _always _fight – with whatever they've got handy: guns, rocks, pointed sticks – they're all just as deadly as any other weapon. Even bare hands. I learned that I'm one of those fighters – that I can't stand by and do nothing when someone needs help, needs someone to fight for them – which was why I was now working for the Pentagon and the DXS. But I keep to my convictions. I never use guns. _

_Well... not for their _intended_ use, anyway. _

_In spite of my feelings toward firearms – and to my chagrin – I'm a fair marksman. My dad taught me how to shoot. It took a little determination, __but__ with visions of team glory foremost in my mind, I practiced shooting the air __pistols__ with my fellow athletes until, __gradually,__ the nausea and depression that handling the guns caused me subsided and disappeared. Mostly._

_But there was no sense in worrying now about tomorrow – especially when there was plenty of action going on in front of me. The foil was light in my hand…excuse me – I mean, the_ _**épée**__…and the next round was about to begin. _

_Time to make with the swashbuckle!_

_xoxox_

MacGyver had made his contact, scored some points for his team, and met a lovely girl – everything about this assignment was going as planned, with bonuses – so it wasn't surprising that he didn't notice the two men standing in the back of the audience during the fencing competition.

They were watching the matches closely with stony faces – they might have been sober but very keen fencing fans – but they were in fact watching only MacGyver, noting who he spoke with, and preparing to follow him if he should try to leave the area. Occasionally one of the men would lift a hand to his ear, ostensibly to scratch his head or straighten the hat that shaded his eyes. Only a close observer would have noticed the tiny cords that came out of their ears and ran down the collars of their shirts.

Gorodisch was, in fact, a close observer. He frowned and wondered why the KGB was watching his American friend. Dumping the souvenir tray he was carrying, he slipped out of the auditorium without being noticed. Quickly locating a janitor's closet, he disappeared inside for a few minutes.

When he emerged, gone was the vendor's uniform, replaced by fencing whites and padded vest. Discreetly, he crossed back to the auditorium, entering though the competitors' entrance. It was a matter of a few minutes' loitering, fiddling with the buckles on the vest, until a lone athlete came jogging along, his fencing sword and helmet tucked under his arm, intently seeking the washroom facilities.

Gorodisch placed an 'Out of Order' sign on the doorknob – helpfully repeated in twenty languages – that he had taken from the janitor's closet, and followed the man into the washroom.

When he came out several minutes later – alone – Gorodisch had on the caged helmet, which hid his blond hair and features efficiently, and was carrying the fellow's foil. He patted the Japanese Olympic patch into place on his shoulder and joined the next round.

He had to combat four opponents before he found himself facing MacGyver. The two Soviets he let win out of an amused sense of patriotic duty – but the Italian and the Australian he mercilessly trounced, mourning slightly the fact that in doing so, he was scoring points for the Japanese. For the fifth match, he raised his épée and saluted his opponent. As Mac touched blades with him, he spoke softly, "Seven sisters had Sven, but no maid to marry him."

MacGyver didn't expect to hear the password in the middle of a Trial match – he was caught momentarily off-guard. Gorodisch used his hesitation to flick the tip of his sword forward. Only a hasty parry prevented the match from ending right then. He could see the Russian's grin through the mesh face shield as the man spoke again, "Keep the tip up… I need the whole minute to talk. You're being watched by the Party Boys."

_KGB_, MacGyver translated silently. _Great._ He defended a quick series of attacks smoothly. "Are we compromised?"

"Maybe not. Could be they want to know why you've been taking Administrator Vistkaya's daughter to dinner."

"Natalie?" MacGyver attacked by reflex, driving Gorodisch back to avoid the long lunge.

Gorodisch laughed as he danced back. "Go tonight to the National Art Museum. Bring your girl, if you want." He brushed aside Mac's feint and ducked under his arm smoothly.

Mac turned just in time to parry Gorodisch's initiative. "Won't they follow us there?"

The wiry agent grinned again, allowing MacGyver's riposte to graze his vest just as the bell rang signaling the end of the match. "I'm counting on it."


	12. Glasnost

**Mishka  
Chapter Twelve: Glasnost**

Natalya shifted her helmet under her arm and fumbled with the key to her room. She was tired but exhilarated after the Fencing Trial. Her own points were average, but in overall score her team was ranking very high. Riding a wave of endorphins, she had hurried to her room rather than join her teammates in the locker room, hoping to get cleaned up in time to catch the end of the Men's Fencing Trials. She wanted to see MacGyver in action.

After a morning of intense exercise, her sword-arm and hand were a bit strained; the keys dropped from her leaden fingers. Mindful of the long blade of the epée, she bent to retrieve them.

Behind the door, she heard a soft noise. Softly she spoke as she fitted her key in the lock, "It is just me, Uncle." The lock was turned, but she would have to wait for him to release the deadbolt before she could get inside.

Mikhail let her in. She looked at her uncle with worry. He had not been sleeping or eating properly in the past few days; the terrible strain of his situation haunted him as he hid himself in his niece's hotel room. She had brought him fresh clothes to wear, but the wrinkles and wear seemed to have migrated to his eyes, and his cheeks were gaunt beneath his graying beard.

"Natasha." He breathed her name in relief. "How glad I am that it is you."

"What is it, Uncle?"

"I was afraid it was – are they gone?" Mikhail spoke barely above a whisper as he closed and locked the door securely. He took her gear and set it aside, then took her hands in his own big ones, pulling her to the divan where they could sit and talk more easily.

"Is who gone? Uncle, what are you talking about?"

"Men. Waiting down the hall… always. I see them through the little eye-hole… pacing up and down, trying to look casual. But they are waiting for me. I don't think they know I am here – maybe they do! But they don't try to come in. Has anyone spoken to you?"

"No one, Uncle. Are you sure – ?"

"Oh, yes. I must contact a friendly embassy soon! If I stay here much longer, I think I shall go mad!" He held her hands still, could feel the faint tremor of her overworked muscles and mistook it for fear. "My poor Natasha! How could I involve you in this hopeless scheme?! I must leave tonight – now! Before they bring their unkind attention upon you as well."

"Uncle – no! You must let me help. They will not hurt me, as you say – my father would not permit it! I will call him – he must know someone who can help – "

"No! No, child. We can't involve your father. He must remain above reproach in this matter – for your protection. No, if I can reach the British consulate – or even the Americans – then perhaps I can obtain a passport."

Natalya's face grew thoughtful. "Uncle… my friend, that I met here in Helsinki… he is an American. He is a good man, I think. Maybe he can help us."

Mikhail shook his head violently. "An American athlete? But the boycott – ! There are no Americans represented here… only expatriates and international playboys." He frowned at his niece. "I thought you said he was a good man! With the team from the Netherlands."

"He is! But MacGyver is also an American."

Mikhail growled, his feelings of protectiveness overpowering his sense of self-preservation. "If he hurts you, I shall have his teeth for cufflinks!"

Natalya smiled. This was her dear uncle that she knew and loved! "You old bear. I tell you, he is a good man. I am sure of him. But I don't know that he can help. Just that he may know someone who can." She kissed his work-roughened knuckles. "Let me ask him."

"Only if you are sure of him. I trust you, Natasha."

She patted his cheek. "I am to see him tonight. I will find a way to ask."

xoxox

"I was thinking," MacGyver said as he walked beside Natalya, "I know I said we'd go to the sauna tonight – but I was wondering." He paused, looking over at her face to gauge her mood. "If you're not too tired, whaddya say we go somewhere afterward?"

"Where did you wish to go?" Natalya felt a twinge of apprehension. She really wanted to get MacGyver somewhere private where they could talk. She knew she couldn't discuss it in the sauna; it was too busy, and such subjects were not to be discussed in such places, anyway. She covered her concern by making a show of rubbing her sore arm. "I'm looking forward to soaking these aches away. And tomorrow! I hope that I shall be able to move at all – and compete!"

"I hear ya." MacGyver nodded. "My right arm feels like a boiled noodle, too." He rotated his shoulder, pleased that it didn't hurt quite as much as it had a few hours ago. "It won't take very long. How about the National Museum? I hear that there's some fine galleries open. If that's your kind of thing?" he asked hopefully.

"They have a magnificent collection of impressionist art." Natalya agreed. But she caught MacGyver's eye and gave him a wistful smile. "Honestly, I'd rather see their Science Gallery. That is more my kind of thing."

"Mine, too!" MacGyver let out his breath and laughed. "After two or three dozen landscapes, all I can think is 'Gosh, I'm glad I don't have to mow all that!'"

She laughed and slapped him playfully – on his good arm. He caught her around the shoulders and pulled her close to prevent further assaults. It felt good, holding her there.

Natalya felt good too… but a twinge of guilt burned in her heart as her mind raced, trying to think of what words to use, how to broach the subject of her uncle's problem… and why she thought that he would be able to help or even care to if he could. But the strength in his embrace seemed to transfer into her, and she let herself lean against him.

They were walking along the street, not hurrying. They reached an intersection, where they paused to wait for the traffic to pass. She looked up into his face as he happened to be looking down at her; their lips were only inches apart.

MacGyver leaned down slightly, and waited. Natalya could have turned her face away, but instead she lifted her chin and let their lips touch in a brief, electric kiss.

She pulled back a fraction, her breath catching in her throat as she looked up at him; her eyes were sparkling. He smiled and kissed her again; a long, tender moment that left both with their blood roaring in their ears and grins on their faces.

The traffic signals changed, and people moved around them, some chuckling and shaking their heads in amusement at MacGyver and Natalya, who stood on the busy corner oblivious to everything and everyone else but each other.

xox

Later, muscles and minds relaxed by the heat of the sauna, MacGyver and Natalya wandered though the museum. They wandered through the exhibits, simply enjoying one another's company. They felt comfortably lost in the traffic of tourists that moved through the brightly lit and secure buildings.

MacGyver kept his eye out for Gorodisch, but he did not think the man would allow himself to be seen. He did notice, after they crossed the galleries toward the exit, the two gentlemen who were following them.

_When are the KGB gonna learn that you can't tail someone discreetly wearing a trench coat in the summer? Are they trying to be noticed? These guys watch too many American spy movies!_

MacGyver might not have thought anything of it. With so many Soviet athletes outside of the USSR, it was given that they would be watched closely. However, these fellows aroused his suspicion; he recognized one of the men. He'd seen him in the hotel, on the same floor, he recalled suddenly, as Natalya's room. A prickle of excitement coursed through him.

"Tell me, Natalie," MacGyver asked. He had his arm draped comfortably across her shoulders; she was holding his hand that hung down, lacing her fingers with his. "You don't have an ex-boyfriend who's the jealous type, do you?"

"What? No, of course not." Natalya laughed lightly. "What makes you ask such a thing?"

"Well – don't look yet! – but there's a guy who's been hanging around. I want to know if you recognize him. Here… look in that window. You can see his reflection like in a mirror."

MacGyver felt her whole body tense at his words, and he kept his arm in place to keep her from running away. He hadn't expected her to react so violently; her face went pale as she searched the reflected faces of the people behind them.

"I don't – I don't see anyone I know." She shrank against him. "Are you sure – sure he's following us? There are so many people – "

The men noticed them watching them in the reflected glass. Immediately, they began to close in on them with intent, maneuvering across the flow of people moving in and out of the museum.

"Let's go." MacGyver guided her down the steps of the museum, his long arm catching the attention of the only taxi idling across the street. The driver zipped over to meet them at the curb – callously ignoring the right-of-way of the other drivers on the road. MacGyver pulled the rear door open. "Jump in quick!"

Natalya willingly ducked into the dark interior of the car, and MacGyver slipped in beside her, folding his longs legs up in the cramped space. "Ambassador Hotel, please," he said to the driver as he pulled the door shut. He kept himself from flashing an obnoxious grin at the men who were stumping down the steps after them, stymied by the fact that there were no more cabs available.


	13. A Good Man

**Mishka  
Chapter Thirteen: A Good Man**

MacGyver sat back in the seat of the taxi, heart still pounding. It was always a little too fun, giving the KGB the slip.

Natalya sat stiffly beside him, her fingers digging into the upholstery. "Who were those men?"

"Your countrymen, I'm guessing. Keeping a watch on their athletes to make sure nobody defects… are you sure you don't recognize them?"

Natalya shook her head. She was thinking of her uncle. Softly, as if to herself, she murmured, "I thought he was just – I didn't think that they'd really look – "

"Natalie?" MacGyver ducked his head down to look into her eyes. She was so frightened. "Hey, it's okay. They wouldn't hurt you. You're Moscow's pride and joy!" Natalya looked away from him; he took her chin in his hand and gently turned her face toward him. "Listen to me: everything is okay. They were probably watching me, anyway."

"No. It is my – my room – that they are watching. They must not yet know – oh, what shall I do?" Wings of panic beat at Natalya, and the motion of the car brought her nausea and fear to a sudden, desperate intensity. "Please… make him stop… stop the car! I need to…"

The color of her face was all the convincing Mac needed. He directed the cab driver to pull over, and Natalya climbed unsteadily out, gulping the night air and trying not to become sick. MacGyver got out and stood beside her, ready to help in any way he could.

"I'm sorry – I'm sorry." The night air settled her stomach, though fear coursed through her veins. At least now she could think, outside the stifling confines of the automobile. "I don't know what came over me."

"Claustrophobia." MacGyver made a self-deprecating shrug. "I know the signs. Intimately." With careful fingers, he brushed a tangle of golden curls back from her face and gently asked, "You wanna tell me what's bothering you?"

Natalya took a deep breath. "My uncle. _He_ wishes to defect. I – I've been trying – trying to – " she searched MacGyver's eyes desperately. "I don't know where to go for help!"

MacGyver frowned. "Your uncle? Is that why the KGB are hanging around your place and following you? Just **who **is your uncle?"

"Dr. Mikhail Ivanovitch Petrov. He's a scientist – a biologist. He has made some very important discoveries, and he is afraid of what they will do with his work. He wants to leave Russia."

"Easier said than done."

"So he has discovered! He's tried to make it on his own, but they nearly caught him – so he came here – he's desperate! And I don't know what to do – "

"Has he tried to contact the American Embassy here in Helsinki?"

Natalya shook her head. "He is hiding… afraid to come out. He knows that they are watching – he thought they were waiting for him, but – "

"But the KGB is watching _you_ because you've been hanging out with _me_." MacGyver sighed and rubbed her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make things complicated for you."

Natalya covered his hand with her own. "You could not have known… and I," she lifted her eyes to look at him again, this time there was no fear there; only warmth. "I am glad that you are with me." She gave a small hopeless laugh. "I don't know what I'm going to do… but I'm glad at least that I can talk to you. The secret has been a terrible burden!"

"Too heavy to carry alone," Mac said softly. "No wonder you've been so upset. Look, let me see what I can do… I have a few friends here and there… let me see what can be done."

Natalya's eyes shined up at him, full of tears of hope and gratitude. The sight of her made his heart skip and his mouth go dry. He tried to moisten his lips to speak, but she lunged upward and caught his mouth with her own with a hungry kiss. "Thank you, MacGyver! Oh, thank you – " she whispered as she embraced him.

MacGyver struggled to remember to breath. "We should get going," he said gently.

"Can we walk from here to the hotel? I mean – will they come after us?" She looked over her shoulder nervously.

"They'll probably be waiting when we get there. Don't worry – like I said, they won't hurt you." MacGyver put his hands on her shoulders. "We can walk if you want."

"I'd advise against it," the cabdriver said, leaning out the window. MacGyver took a second look at the fellow and recognized Gorodisch under an artfully disreputable mustache and goatee. "No more time. Get in quickly." He reached back and pushed the door open fully.

Natalya shrank against MacGyver. He gave her a comforting hug. "It's okay, Natalie. He's – a friend." He guided her into the car, which sped away as soon as Mac's feet left the pavement.

Natalya leaned toward MacGyver and whispered, "Do you think he heard… everything?"

Gorodisch glanced into the rear view, meeting Natalya's eyes in the narrow mirror. "I did… and you can relax. The KGB will not hear anything from me." He cut his eyes toward MacGyver. "This complicates things," he said gravely. "We may need to step things up."

MacGyver nodded. "I understand." The mission was still the mission. "Natalie… I don't know that I'll be able to help right now… but I can still talk to someone about getting your uncle out later – "

"Oh, no," Gorodisch interrupted him. "We must do that, too. Dr. Mikhail Ivanovitch is a commodity that many countries will jump at the chance to acquire!" He chuckled, his eyes twinkling beneath the brim of his cab driver's cap. "If for no other reason than to keep his research out of other hands."

Natalya was looking from one man to the other, her expression beyond wonder. "You mean… you _**can**_ help him?"

"Can and will, dear girl," Gorodisch said easily. He winked at MacGyver. "It will be – as you say in America – a piece of cake, yes?"

MacGyver's expression was more reserved, his mind racing as he considered the difficulties and risks of departing Finland precipitously with a Soviet scientist in tow; he didn't share Gorodisch's confidence. But Natalya's eyes were on his face, and she was squeezing his hand tightly. "Um, yeah."

They were pulling up to the front entrance of the hotel. It was dark now, which meant that it was _very _late. The courtyard and fountain were brilliantly illuminated with colored lights. Gorodisch laid one arm over the edge of the seat as he turned to speak to them.

"Get out and make sure you're seen." He smiled as he nodded toward the people standing around the fountain and just inside the entrance of the foyer. "Laugh and pretend nothing is wrong. Walk her to the doorway and then come back. Miss Vistkaya, go to your room and let your uncle know he must stay out of sight. We will help him, but we must not let the KGB know where he is."

"How – how did you know he was in my hotel room?" she stammered. "I didn't say!"

"Um, well," Gorodisch had the presence to look a little embarrassed. "I've, uh, been watching too…" She gaped at him, but he forestalled her with a raised hand. "I doubt the KGB knows he's there… if they did, they'd move in and take him! Why wait, eh? So just hold on for another day or so. MacGyver and I, we will set the wheels in motion."

Natalya nodded. As she slid out of the car, she paused and pecked a chaste kiss on his heavy jaw. Gorodisch gave her a startled, bemused look, and touched the brim of his hat to salute her.

MacGyver and Natalya carried out their masquerade for their audience, and he left her in the pool of golden light spilling out of the hotel's wide doors. She watched the car pull away sedately, waving after him and feeling like a silly schoolgirl. Then she walked slowly to the elevators and ascended to her floor.

The absence of men outside her room relieved her. Perhaps she had overreacted after all, she thought as she fitted her key into the lock and turned it, glad that her nervousness had abated so that she managed not to drop her keys again. The door opened easily and she stepped into the darkened room and pushed it shut behind her. She felt along the wall in the darkness to turn on the lights, but oddly, her hand did not touch the cool smoothness of the wall. Instead, she felt the coarseness of woven cloth.

Fingers closed over her wrist. She gave a startled cry, but another hand clamped over her mouth, turning her shout into a muffled squeal.

The lights came on. Natalya let out a smothered moan of despair and then fainted.

xoxox

Once out of sight of the hotel, Gorodisch pushed the speed until the cab was zipping along at the legal limit. MacGyver leaned forward over the bench seat.

"You're playing kind of fast and loose, aren't you?" MacGyver said. "Don't you think you're putting her in unnecessary danger?"

"It's her uncle who came to her to defect. I'd say he's putting her in danger." The man shrugged. "Still, she should be safe enough. She will be followed, of course, but as of now, the KGB believes you to be no more than an American ringer for the Hollanders." His eyes roamed over the road as he spoke. He increased their speed slightly. "If they're concentrating on her, it will be easier to move forward with our own plans."

"Won't they be watching me, too?" Mac turned to look out the rear window; multicolored lights slid off the glass and splashed across the fenders as they sped along the thoroughfare.

"No more so than the other competitors belonging to the allied countries. Well, maybe a little more so… but they won't be expecting you to be carrying what I'm going to give you."

MacGyver shook his head. "I think we're taking a big risk… maybe I should leave tonight. You could get Petrov the papers he needs, can't you?"

"Yes, I can, but you must not leave tonight. Tomorrow you will have a plausible excuse for dropping out of the Trials. If you go now, tonight, they will be hunting for you as soon as you're missed – which will be too soon. I have it all worked out."

"Great. Are you going to share this with me, or am I supposed to enjoy the surprise?"

Gorodisch reached over his shoulder to adjust his seat belt. "I don't think this is a surprise that you're going to enjoy… but it just might save your life."

He jerked the wheel suddenly to one side, sending the car into a careening skid. It bounced over a median, narrowly missing a lorry that was lumbering in the other lane. MacGyver shouted and dropped down into the seat as Gorodisch stamped on the brakes and spun the wheel in the other direction. The car slewed around, tires screaming, and then there was an almighty crash as the rear end of the taxi smashed into the concrete buttress of the Pitkäsilta bridge.


	14. Them’s The Breaks

**Chapter Fourteen: Them's The Breaks**

MacGyver pulled himself up from the floorboard of the taxi. Lights were flashing behind his eyes, and the seats were covered with broken glass. He shook his head to clear it, and more shards fell out of his hair. With shaking hands, he began to check himself for damage.

He realized that the lights were not just inside his head; they were outside the cab, too. The door was yanked open and hands reached inside, followed by the round, earnest face of a man. "Hey, buddy… take it easy. We're here to help."

"I'm fine," MacGyver said, not really feeling it. "The driver – "

" – is also fine," a voice said, and Gorodisch sat up in the front seat, straightening his cap. "Thanks for worrying. Bennie, we need a little more color here…"

Bennie the paramedic nodded. "No problem. You ordered the full package. Arm, leg, or head?" he asked, gesturing to his passenger.

"Better make it the arm – he may still have some running to do." Gorodisch angled the rear view mirror toward him and began to straighten his mustache.

MacGyver opened his mouth to speak, but before he could make a sound, Bennie reached into a pocket and came out with a small bottle, uncapped it and upended it on MacGyver's sleeve.

"What – hey! Whoa!" MacGyver stared at the dripping red mess.

Gorodisch glanced back, nodding with approval. "Looks bad… but we need a break. Here," he handed Bennie a short piece of white plastic. "Shove that through his sleeve and soak it… it'll look like a compound fracture." He glanced out the window. "And hurry… the cameras are almost rolling."

"Cameras?! No way…" MacGyver protested. "I can't have my face on the news!"

"You're right." Gorodisch sighed. "Face, too, Bennie – at least until we're out of sight."

"Eyes closed, please." Bennie said, and MacGyver clenched his eyes shut as the paramedic squirted the viscous red fluid into his hair and across his forehead.

The stuff oozed everywhere. "Ugh!" MacGyver spat out some that had seeped down his face to his mouth. "Strawberry syrup?"

"Puréed strawberries and pomegranate syrup, actually," Gorodisch said as he daubed his own face with it. "The pulp makes convincing blood spatter when not too closely examined. Now, lie back and let the nice ambulance men carry your bloody carcass out of the wreckage, will you?"

MacGyver sighed and permitted Bennie to wrap a loose bandage over half his face before the paramedic and his taciturn companion pulled him out of the taxi and laid him out on a narrow stretcher.

A police car and several other vehicles blocked the bridge while the ambulance was loaded. A couple of flashbulbs heralded the presence of newspaper men. MacGyver gave a convincing performance as a semiconscious victim and Bennie helped Gorodisch in after him. The supposed driver was still mopping his blood-smeared face and complaining loudly about his damaged taxi when the ambulance doors were slammed shut behind them.

MacGyver lifted his arm and regarded the jutting plastic 'bone'. He had to admit… it did look convincing. "But, doc," he quipped as he lay back, "will I be able to play the piano?"

Gorodisch chuckled.

xoxox

Natalya opened her eyes, praying that she was having a bad dream. She was in her bed in her hotel room – but she was not dreaming. There were two hard-looking men standing by her uncle. Mikhail sat between them; he held a bloodstained towel to his face and there were darkening bruises on his jaw and eyes. A third man, tall and thin, stood beside her bed, his back toward her. He turned at the sound of her movement as she sat up unsteadily. He reached out to assist her, but she shrank back from him.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my room?" Natalya demanded. "This is an outrage and a violation!"

"We are the _Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti_, Miss Viskaya." The thin man spoke gently, his voice contained a threadbare hint of an apology as he added, "I am very sorry if we gave you a fright. You see, we have the authority to arrest the man who has been hiding in your hotel room. We also," he said, casually regarding the length of his fingernails, "could arrest you – for attempting to aid his defection."

"I told you!" Mikhail shouted, lunging out of his chair at the thin man. "She has nothing to do with this!" His meaty guards were taken by surprise at the suddenness of his outburst, and they grappled with him briefly before slamming him back into his seat. "Damn you, she is innocent! She knows nothing of my actions!"

"Perhaps. Perhaps." The man shrugged. "I would prefer to believe she is innocent… but I confess it is difficult. She is, after all, spending a great deal of time with a man who we suspect to be an American spy."

"What?!" Natalya climbed to her feet, faintness gone as her anger flared. "MacGyver is no spy… he is an athlete! What you suggest is preposterous!"

"Of course that is what he told you. It is not surprising that he has not confided his you, my dear. These foreign spies often use casual relationships as cover for their operations… even going so far as to seduce naïve young women such as yourself."

His eyes slid over her. Natalya turned away, her face flushed. The man laughed at her. "Poor child! She has no idea she is being used." The other men laughed with him.

Natalya covered her reddened face with her hands. "I – I don't believe you."

"Well, you can believe this: I will arrest your uncle and charge him with treason. He will be sent to the coldest, most remote gulag in Siberia for the next several years, if not the rest of his miserable life."

"No! He has done nothing wrong! He just came to – to visit me. To support me during the Trials. You can't arrest him!"

"Ah, but I can." The man tilted his head and looked at Natalya meaningfully. "Unless."

"Unless… what?" She clutched the top of her blouse closed against the filth of his gaze.

"You could prove that you are what you say you are… a loyal daughter of the Soviet."

Natalya glared at him. "I **am** loyal to the Soviet!"

"Of course. But this thing you might do… this very small thing… could not only prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt, but could benefit you greatly. Instead of shame, you will bring your family pride. Your career will be forwarded. Your uncle – he will not go to the gulag, but will be allowed to return to his laboratory to continue his very important work. This incident will be entirely forgiven… forgotten!"

Natalya looked at her uncle. His face was full of misery, but she could see the glimmer of hope that the thin man's words had wakened within him. She swallowed her fear and turned to the thin man.

"I don't care about myself... but I won't let you tear apart my family. What do you want me to do?"


	15. A Gent Under Cover

**Chapter Fifteen: A Gent Under Cover**

MacGyver lifted his arm, now encased in a very large, bulky cast. "Don't you think you're overdoing things a little?"

"Not at all. This is the perfect ticket to get you out of the country clean. Bizarre accident—just bad luck. We have media evidence that you're broken under there… congratulations, by the way… you made the continental European news broadcast." Gorodisch nodded toward the television, which was on but had the sound turned all the way down. "Plus, with that enormous cast, you'll win the sympathy vote for sure!"

They were in his hospital room, waiting for his release papers so that he could leave. MacGyver sighed and let his head drop back on the pillow. "There goes my Olympic career…" he said, half jokingly. "Coach Maartin is going to go ballistic."

"He knew that you'd not likely be with the team through the Trials—Maartin is a good sport." Gorodisch gave Mac a crooked smile before becoming serious again. "He knows what we do is important. This," he tapped a finger on the plaster that encased MacGyver's arm from palm to half-way past his elbow, "is going to be your E ticket all the way home... first class, handicap access… red carpet all the way!"

"I don't feel right taking advantage—" Mac began to say, but Gorodisch quelled him with a glare. "I know… important sensitive information—okay, okay. But I'm giving my seat to anyone who really needs it."

"Boy scout." Gorodisch rolled his eyes. "I don't care; be a tough guy… just don't take off that cast until you're in DC. And remember… there's no hurry. Take a couple of days to rest before you leave. You don't want to attract any suspicion, but there will be curiosity. Ride it out and maintain your cover. Your traveling papers and tickets are at the Ferry lock box. Just collect them before you leave."

"What about Natalie's uncle? Will we be able to help him?"

"I have that covered. I made some calls while you were getting checked out—another reason for you to hang around for a couple of days—by tomorrow evening I should be able to furnish the necessary passport and identification. I'll bring them to your hotel room—under the pretext of getting you to sign a waiver of suit against my insurance because of the accident." He chuckled and adjusted his cabdriver's hat. "By then I will have arranged a plan to get him out of the country."

"Great. Thanks, man."

Gorodisch smiled knowingly. "You really like her, don't you?"

MacGyver grinned, tried to smother it with his right hand. "Well... I just want to help..."

"Yeah, whatever." Gorodisch winked at him.

The nurse walked in just then, a sheaf of papers in her hands. She held up an ink pen like a hypodermic.

Gorodisch transformed instantly into the inconvenienced taxi driver. "And _you _will be hearing from my boss, you **will!** I want compensation for the damage to my auto!"

"I wasn't the one driving, bud," MacGyver grumbled, signing the papers awkwardly. "Ask your friendly neighborhood insurance agent—if he'll take your call." Mac handed the nurse the pen and gave her a pained smile. "Can you arrange for a taxi to take me to my hotel? One with a _**real**_ driver?" he rolled his eyes toward Gorodisch. The nurse smirked, and Gorodisch began to sputter in wordless indignation.

He plucked the pen from her fingers and scrawled something on the white surface of MacGyver's cast. He then threw the pen down on the bed and stamped out of the room in a huff.

Because of where it was Mac couldn't see what Gorodisch had scribbled on his cast, but the nurse's face reddened when she saw what had been written.

"Oh… my!" She tried to smear the ink with her thumb as she helped MacGyver into the wheelchair to take him out of the hospital. "That is not very nice at all!'

xox

Instead of a cab, MacGyver found Coach Maartin waiting to pick him up in the team shuttle—with most of the team in tow. They noisily cheered until he managed to hush them, pointing at the 'Quiet! Hospital Zone!' sign.

He was touched by their display; they were trying to cheer him up, no doubt, thinking that he would be greatly disappointed that he could no longer compete. They were right—he was a little disappointed—and it felt good to let them to show their support. He felt fiercely proud of them all, and he laughed at their bawdy jokes and asked them all to write something on his cast.

There was only time to take their injured teammate back to the hotel before the coach had to have his athletes at their next Trial, but MacGyver was grateful to be dropped at the entrance of the hotel to make his own way to his room. He had some things to arrange and a need to be discreet—and a moping, cast-ridden Olympic drop-out was the perfect cover for the actions he had to take. _Gorodisch knew the business well_, Mac thought as he dug his room key out of his pocket. But the door was not locked; it stood ajar about an inch, and the light inside was on.

Cautiously, he pushed the door further open and peered inside. Natalya was on his bed, half-curled on her side and apparently asleep.

MacGyver looked up and down the hallway, but there was nobody in sight. His Soviet sweetheart seemed to have given her KGB watchdogs the slip. Closing the door behind him, he listened for a moment and then walked carefully around the room. There was no sign of his room having been rifled or any unwelcome intruders.

He went to the bed and sat on the edge. Natalya stirred.

"Natalie?"

She opened her eyes. MacGyver gave her a reassuring smile, and the next thing he knew, he was being bowled over backwards as Natalya flung her arms around his neck. The weight of the cast overbalanced him and he tipped over the edge of the bed, dragging her with him to sprawl together on the floor.

"Oh! I'm—I'm sorry!" Natalya gasped, landing on top of him.

"It's okay… it doesn't hurt." MacGyver hugged her, one-armed. "Are **you** okay?"

"I heard what happened—_what happened? _I mean—you were just here, and then on the news…" she stared at him, touched the cast on his arm carefully. "I was so afraid that _**they **_had hurt you—"

"No 'they'. It was an accident. Nobody to blame—other than the driver!" MacGyver lifted his chin toward the bed. "D'ya think we can carry this show onto the bed? The floor is cold…"

"Yes! Sorry—" She clasped his good arm to help him get up; he let her. "The driver? I thought he was—a _friend_," she whispered, glancing around nervously. "Were you followed—followed by those men?"

"No. No it was just a freak thing, Natalie. He lost control and we kissed a bridge. No big deal." He nodded toward the door. "I figured they were following you, but I didn't see anyone hanging around outside."

"Not anymore. It was—" Natalya glanced downward to the left, away from Mac's casted arm- "my coach was concerned about me. I have spoken with him and—he has removed the bodyguards." The lie that the KGB had made her rehearse felt awkward on her tongue, but MacGyver seemed to accept it.

"Well, I'm glad you got out of the car when you did."

"But—your arm! Now you will not be able to compete! You must be very upset."

"Yeah. And no." He lifted her chin with a finger. "Now I can go sit in the cheering section for you. Speaking of which… why are you here instead of the arena?"

She looked him with exasperation. "I couldn't! You were—and I thought that I—" she sighed. "I sent my alternate to the competition."

"Oh, Natalie!" MacGyver hugged her and patted her back. "I'm fine! Just a ding—as my grandfather would say." He lifted the cast slightly, flapping his lame wing. "Two weeks and I'm good as new. Okay—four weeks." He amended with a grin as she lifted an eyebrow.

"It must hurt terribly—" she whispered so sympathetically that MacGyver felt like a heel. She kissed his fingers where they poked out of the cast.

"Not terribly… but **that** is nice," he added, smiling. She leaned forward and lightly planted her lips on his. "Even better."

"Okay, I am convinced," she laughed. "You _are _all right."


	16. Love Between Lies

**Mishka  
Chapter Sixteen: Love Between Lies**

Natalya insisted on Mac taking some time to rest. She didn't know that his broken arm was bogus, and he couldn't really tell her—only insist that it didn't hurt. When she inquired about the medicine that he'd been prescribed, he had to think fast and tell her that he had none, adding quickly that he was allergic to painkillers. _A small lie_, he thought, _relatively harmless_. But she frowned at him after he said it, as if she didn't believe him at all.

So they spent the rest of the morning lying on top of the duvet, Natalya nestled under his good arm. From the dark smudges under her eyes, MacGyver guessed that she was very tired—from worrying about her uncle and maybe a little about him. That part of his thought brought him a smile; though he didn't want to cause her any distress, it did feel good to be cared about. He closed his eyes and let himself sleep, but lightly; noises from the hallway or from the next suite woke him frequently. After about two hours, his stomach growled a few times.

It was loud enough to wake Natalya.

She blinked, smiled up at him, and then rubbed his sweater where it stretched over his midriff. "Is that the sound of an earthquake?" She giggled when MacGyver's face reddened.

"I've skipped dinner. And breakfast." He looked at the bedside clock. "And lunch, soon."

Natalya pushed herself up and looked down into his face. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I don't talk in my sleep." She swatted at him playfully and he ducked away.

"You should eat. You need your strength to heal." She slid off the bed and straightened her clothes. Mac watched her until she noticed and blushed. "Come on!" She held out her hand to him imperiously.

"Yes, ma'am."

The hotel restaurant was packed and the line of people waiting too long. MacGyver and Natalya left the hotel and, avoiding the taxi-stand with some laughter, walked until they found a café that wasn't too overcrowded. They ordered the specials and ate whatever they were brought, sharing each dish and fighting playfully for the last bite.

Natalya caught him looking at her; she leveled her gaze at him. "What? Do I have _rieska _in my teeth?"

Mac laughed. "No. I was just wondering how long it will be before your coach comes looking for you."

Natalya's smile faded slightly; she ducked her head a little. "Not now. But he will expect me to be working in the gym, preparing for tomorrow's trials."

"I just don't want to be in your way of getting to the Olympics," MacGyver covered her hand with his. "As much as I enjoy your company and your attention."

She smiled at him sweetly. "I feel so bad that you are out. Perhaps next time..."

"Oh, yeah! You bet! I'll be right back in there—before you know it!" MacGyver ignored the pang in his gut as the lie rolled out effortlessly.

Natalya grew quiet, her eyes downcast as she toyed with the fork on her empty plate.

"Natalie? Are you okay? I promise, I'm going to be fine—"

"Oh, no—it's not that. I—I'm just worried. About my uncle."

"It's being taken care of. Trust me."

_As soon as I'd uttered that word—trust—I wished I hadn't said it. It hung dully between us. I realized, in that awkward moment, that she didn't believe me—even the things I said that I meant. _

Natalya saw the change come over MacGyver's face, and her heart froze a little. _He knows._

She felt her face turning red, and to cover it she raised her napkin, not having to try to fake her tears.

"C'mon." MacGyver tossed money onto the table and took her arm. They walked back to the hotel, hand in cold hand.

When they reached the lobby, she stopped, pulling her hand free. "I must—go and work out in the gym. Can I—can I come and see you later? You'll—" she took a deep breath, "You'll be in your room? Um, resting?"

"Yeah." _Hollow, hollow words. _"I'll look forward to it. Natalie—" She was walking away from him, but turned back at the sound of her name. "I'm sure everything will be okay."

She smiled gratefully at him. "It will be... soon."

xoxox

MacGyver unlocked the door of his room and pushed it open with his fingertips. There had been no one in the stairwell or in the corridor. If the KGB were watching, they had perfected the art of surveillance to the levels of invisibility. The switch was just inside the door; Mac slapped the light on and pushed the door shut.

"Come out, come out, where ever you are."

Gorodisch peeked out from behind the heavy drapes. "Boo."

"Huh. I expected you to be in the closet."

"Closets don't have escape routes." Gorodisch flopped onto the bed, his hands behind his head. "You don't mind, do you? I've been skulking all night and I'm ragged."

"Natalie says that the KGB have laid off—" MacGyver paused when he saw the dark look on Gorodisch's face. "—but you disagree."

"MacGyver, my friend, we are on the razor's edge." He rolled up off the bed in a smooth motion and stood in front of Mac. He looked him straight in the eye. "I hate to tell you this, but your girlfriend is working for the KGB."

MacGyver gaped at him. "Natalie? No way. Just—no way, man!" He clenched his fists, eyes sparking with anger.

Gorodisch held up a soothing hand. "Take it easy. In this business, it is hard to know who to trust. It is possible that she has no choice."

"You mean it is possible that she doesn't even have an uncle who wants to defect! I thought you saw him—"

Gorodisch shrugged. "I saw the man—I know his face. He's a dissenter—rumors of his defection are flying around Moscow like leaflets in the wind. Her story is credible."

Mac looked at Gorodisch; he trusted this man. _But who can you really trust in this business?_ "And you know this—how?!"

"You forget—I work for individuals high in the Soviet government. I have it from impeccable authorities. I am sorry, my friend—the agents we saw earlier have been assigned to intercept this intel," he glanced at Mac's cast meaningfully, "and Miss Vistkaya is the way they mean to obtain them."

Mac thought back to the moment when he had first seen her. Had the scene at the door of his hotel room been completely contrived? Had she been trying to break in after all? "I don't believe that!" Mac muttered to himself. He crossed his arms to hold in the ache in his heart.

"Dammit! I **never** should have gotten her involved!" MacGvyer turned away, thumping an impotent fist against the woodwork.

"Don't beat yourself up, MacGvyer—you've only got one good arm—remember? Look—there was no reason to suspect her. She was innocent when you met—I am sure of it. Somehow they got wind that you were the courier—and that might be my fault, for contacting you too soon." His hand clasped MacGyver's shoulder. "Pull yourself together, man. All we can do now is work through this."

"They must've been on to us from the beginning."

"I can't see how they found out—but I have to agree. We won't wait—we go tonight. I'll have transport ready if I have to steal a plane."

"What about your cover? If Natalie—" MacGyver hesitated over her name, "If Natalya is KGB—she's seen your face."

"In disguise. She won't be able to identify me in Moscow—my face there is very different from this." He drew a hand over his own features.

MacGyver sighed. "Let's go then. There is no point in staying here, waiting for them to bust down the door."

"You still have some protection, MacGyver—they don't dare take you outright. That's why they are using the girl—they need to take what you carry without creating a diplomatic incident."

"Then we should give them something that they think that they want," MacGyver said grimly.

Gorodisch reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out a sheaf of papers and a passport. "Here are the documents that I arranged for Dr. Petrov—they cannot be traced to me, of course—plus a little something for the Party Boys to chew on. Make sure she sees you hide them. Don't make it too easy for her to take them, and as soon as she's got them, get out of this hotel. Leave everything—we'll be traveling light and fast." He held the papers out for MacGyver to take. "Head for the airport. I'll intercept you somewhere along the way."

MacGvyer accepted them with numb fingers. "What will happen to her when they find out this is false information?"

"It isn't false. It is information that will reveal a leak at Red Army Headquarters. They will catch a double agent, and Miss Vistkaya will be rewarded as an heroic citizen of the Soviet."

"A leak at Red Army HQ... what? You're going to out _**your**__self?_"

Gorodisch gave him a wolfish grin. "Don't be ridiculous. You think I'm the only double agent in the Soviet?"

MacGyver shook his head. "Politics. How do you keep all this craziness straight?"

Gorodisch clapped his hand to MacGyver's shoulder, giving him a friendly shake. "Trust me, my friend. I know I ask a great deal, and I won't say that there is no chance that it won't all go downhill—but we can do what we can. What you must do what you must do." He tapped the cast on Mac's arm meaningfully. "Many lives depend upon making her believe she has tricked you."

"All right." MacGyver sighed. "I'll do my best."


	17. Mata Hari

**Mishka **

**chapter seventeen**: **Mata Hari**

_There's a scene like this in every detective and spy novel I've read. The bedroom scene. Softly lit atmosphere. Silk sheets. Relaxing music playing somewhere. A scent of flowers and musk. _

_Chandler might have added a thunderstorm. _

_Fleming would've had me order champagne and stick a gun under my pillow. _

_But this wasn't a novel or a movie. My stomach was roiling with a meal of anxiety and anger, with a heaping helping of self-disgust for dessert. I couldn't think about Natalie as KGB – I wanted her to be innocent. I wanted her to feel about me how I felt about her – before._

_The lights were out in my room; only the diffused sunlight shining through a gap in the curtains lighting the humble setting. No silk sheets, no champagne in a frosted bucket. Only clean cotton and birdsong through the open window. On the small chest of drawers by the bed, the top drawer slightly open, papers placed in a carefully careless array. _

_My arm itched under the cast, and my feet itched to be moving – running away from this scene where I felt part of myself would surely die – maybe a lot of myself, if the KGB decided to drop their gloves and skip the intrigue. I should be so lucky – I'd've preferred a stand-up fight to this._

_The waiting was the worst part. I stood by the window, arms braced against the sill, staring out at the mocking blue sky. Somewhere out there under that sky, my teammates were competing in the rifle trials. I'd even rather be handling a gun right now! _

_Tomorrow they would be running cross-country – and I'd be running, too, but in an altogether different direction. If they won, they'd go to Moscow for the Olympics. If I lost __**my**_ _race, I'd be heading to Moscow, too… possibly a destination further east. Siberia, for example. _

_I hear the gulags are _lovely _this time of year…_

xoxox

Natalya sat in her own room, staring blankly at the second bed.

The roommate she had originally been assigned had long since been moved out: a lucky coincidence, she had thought, when her uncle had first come to her. Now she realized that the KGB must have arranged it, so that she would have a place for her uncle to hide, where she would think he'd be safe.

_There are no safe places_, she thought bitterly. _There is only obedience and duty._

Mikhail was the perfect lever over her; she desperately wanted to help him. And it would be he who suffered, if she balked or failed in this task. She might get a reprimand – at worst, maybe lose her visa privileges and her place on the Olympic team – but he would go to prison. Or worse.

She thrust that idea from her. It would **never** happen! Not when it was in her power to prevent it!

And she'd make sure the KGB lived up to their promises. She had insisted on documents guaranteeing her uncle's continued safety. Her father had the power to make sure they kept their word – they would not dare to harass Mikhail after this.

Now all that was left was to work herself up to this – _this __**job**__._

Natalya hugged herself to still the fluttering fear and excitement struggling for dominance inside her heart. This s_hould_ be easy – she _did_ care for MacGyver – certainly she was attracted to him. Had been from the moment she had seen him, fumbling with his keys in the corridor, flashing that smile at her that made her forget for a moment her own name.

She felt tears behind her eyes as she thought about him, and she closed them, pressed her fists against her eyes firmly. She was determined not to let the tears fall.

She took a deep breath, sitting up straight and squaring her shoulders. She ran her fingers through her hair and then shook herself, just as she would had she been preparing for another Trial. She stood and headed toward the bathroom, shedding her clothes. She stood under the pounding fists of the water, as hot as she could stand it, hoping that this wouldn't be the last time in her life she could feel clean.

xoxox

The knock on the door was so soft, so timid – Mac thought he might have imagined hearing it. The sound repeated an instant later, stronger. He opened the door and simply stood.

"What's the matter?"

MacGyver blinked. "What? Nothing... why?"

Natalya blushed and smiled. "You've been standing there staring at me. Is there something – ?" she reached up uncertainly toward her hair.

Mac swallowed. "It's just that you look – lovely. Sorry! I guess I'm kinda out of it." He smiled reassuringly at her and stepped back to turn and reach for his jacket. "Where would you like to go?"

Natalya stepped inside the door and pushed it closed behind her. "I – I'd rather stay in, if you don't mind."

MacGyver let his jacket drop from his hand. "I was thinking the same thing... only I didn't want to be selfish and deny the folks in Helsinki the chance to see the next Olympic star."

She pulled a bottle out of her jacket. "Best vodka from Russia. Perfect to celebrate. Or to forget."

"Um..." MacGyver shook his head slightly. "No thanks. I don't drink."

"Not at all? But everyone drinks!"

"Not everyone." He smiled and took the bottle from her, setting it on the table. "Perhaps we should go out."

Natalya laughed lightly, her eyes sparking. "Considering the bad luck you've had," she touched the rigid cast covering his arm gently, "I thought it might be safer in here. And – " she hesitated; her face flushed brightly. She covered her embarrassment by turning and dropping her own jacket on the floor on top of Mac's. "I'd rather keep you all to myself. Since you have to – to go. Soon." She ran her fingers up the length of the cast to his shoulder. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly, stepping close to him.

"No – not much. It – um – itches a little." Mac looked down into her face, lovely with color and framed by her golden hair. She smelled fresh and clean and her hands were warm as she circled his neck with her arms and drew herself up to his lips.

Mac found his arms had minds of their own; he gathered her to him, mindful of the heavy cast, and held her firmly against him, drinking in the kiss. He could feel her body trembling.

When she released his mouth, he drew his head back a little and looked at her. "Natalya... you don't have to – "

"Shut up, MacGyver. Shut up and kiss me. Kiss me like I know you want. Like I want you to."

He did, and to his surprise he found that he did want to – regardless of everything.

She broke the kiss after a long moment, nestling her face against his throat. "Let's be together, Mac," she whispered. "Let's pretend that the world is – that there is no world. Only us. Only now."

"Natalya – I'm leaving in the morning. I – "

"Shush." She covered his mouth with her fingertips and then with her own mouth, whispering, "Call me Natalie."

xoxox

MacGyver remained where he was, lying on the bed with his good arm over his face. He could easily have been asleep, instead of pretending. His body felt warm and loose and pleasantly exhausted. He listened to the soft sounds of Natalya stirring, slipping out of the bed and gathering her clothes, dressing slowly. Too slowly. As if she wanted him to rouse and stop her.

He heard the drawer ease open with a tiny scrape, the rustle of the papers as she gathered them. Then there was a long moment where he heard nothing, and the flesh on his neck crawled as he waited and waited. Finally, she padded softly away, pausing at the door for another moment before opening it carefully and closing it behind her. The latch clicked with a cold sound.

Mac lowered his arm. The papers were gone—of course. Something bitter and cold flared in his chest. He had hoped—had really wanted Gorodisch to have been wrong about Natalie. But he hadn't been wrong. She had lied to MacGyver—used him—and now she had robbed him. It didn't matter that the papers were planted. She took them and now she was gone. So was his hope.

MacGyver rolled out of bed and dressed quickly. All his essential things were in his small satchel, which he pulled from under the bed. He went to the window and pushed it open, tossing the bag onto the balcony. There was a slight chill in the air – he turned back to get his jacket from where he had dropped it, pulling it awkwardly over his bulky cast. Climbing down wasn't going to be much fun – he looked down over the rail.

A rope ladder was tied to the rail, bundled up and hidden under a casually draped towel. MacGyver smiled slightly. _Gorodisch._ He pulled on the string binding the ladder and watched it unfold in a fluid motion. He slipped the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and climbed down quickly. Then he hurried over the grass and into the crowds that thronged the streets of sleepless, night-less Helsinki.

As he walked over the bridge leading to the Port Ferry, he felt something poking him through the lining of his jacket. He reached in and took it out; a royal blue matchbook bearing the name of the Ambassador Hotel in silver letters. He didn't remember picking them up. He stopped to examine it, leaning against the rail as he flipping it open with his long fingers.

Two words were written inside the cover of the matchbook. Two words that seared his throat closed as he whispered, "Me too, Natalie. I'm sorry too."

Wind up from the river tugged at the painted cardboard he held, trying to pluck it out of his hands, as if encouraging MacGyver let it go. He found himself wishing that painful memories could be stripped away as easily. He often kept mementos of his journeys, but this time, he did not want to remember.

He dropped the matchbook over the side of the bridge. By the time it fluttered down to sink beneath the sparkling water, MacGyver was nowhere in sight.


	18. Getting Russian

**Mishka**

**chapter eighteen: Getting Russian**

The wind was picking up; it fussed at MacGyver's clothes and wrestled with his hair as he walked along the boulevard. The sidewalks were busy with people, the roads alive with cars and scooters; the Olympic Trials were in full swing and Helsinki glittered in the perpetual soft sunlight.

MacGyver kept his pace casual and unhurried, in spite of the fact that he felt as if there were a large target painted on his back. The plaster cast encasing his left arm was heavy, awkward and conspicuous. He didn't know if he was being followed; he forced himself not to look over his shoulder as he meandered purposefully along the thoroughfare on his way to the Finnlines Ferry terminals. The locker key Pete had given him was in his pocket, but he wished that his friend had given him more details about where he would be going. He'd heard Stockholm was nice this time of year.

He sidestepped a man wearing a tray on a neck-strap, hawking Olympic souvenirs. Rows of tiny golden bears winked in the sunlight, and Mac's thoughts turned at once to Natalie. The memory of the words she had written on that matchbook fought their way to the front of his mind.

_She wrote that she was sorry… sorry for what? For leaving? For stealing my papers? For being a KGB mole? Was she lying all along, and I was just too stupid and smitten to realize . . . _

Mac thought over the last few days, over every moment that he'd spent with Natalie, trying to identify some sign of manipulation. But he couldn't think beyond the memory of her violet-blue eyes and golden hair, and the ridiculous twinge of jealousy he'd felt for the tiny golden bear pinned over her heart on that warm cashmere sweater. He couldn't believe that she'd planned to betray him all along. There had to be some reason—something she hadn't told him about.

He looked in the direction of the hotel, wistfully. If he could speak to her just once more—

Something caught his eye, something suspicious behind him among the vendor kiosks and wagons lining the boardwalk leading to the Ferry. The bittersweet thoughts of Natalie were washed away in a surge of cold reality as, with a visible jolt, MacGyver's attention was wrenched back to the mission at hand.

Mac became intensely interested in a display of sunglasses. He plucked a pair from the rack and slipped them on, tag fluttering over his nose as he tilted the mirror to see back over his shoulder. _There_. A pair of heavy-looking men in heavy clothes—no, three of them—loitering in a loose group some yards behind him. And a car, a dark sedan idling amid a menace of exhaust fumes; it squatted among the gray taxis with their yellow domes, looking obviously out-of-place.

Mac returned the sunglasses to the display, spinning the panel as if searching for a different style. Ahead of him, he could see people and traffic flowing along the many landings. A stream of cars were departing from a newly-docked ferry, people fanning out, some running toward the waiting taxis while others hurried to be ready to board the same ferry before it left again.

Standing stock-still among the rushing, animated people, two more grim men guarded the entrance to the ferry terminal.

Sandwiched between the groups of men, and walled on one side by the white-capped bay, Mac had only one other way to go. The mouth of a small alley opened among the storefronts beyond the street.

Seeing no more conspicuous obstacles, he moved on, trying to keep groups of people or vendors' stands between himself and the men behind him. There was an alley opening up on the left, some yards ahead; if he could reach it…

As soon as he began moving toward the alley, one of the men started purposefully after him. His bulky companion caught his arm and drew him back. Mac slipped around a flock of children, then crossed the street quickly; he didn't want the kids to get caught in the middle of things—should things start to get unpleasant. The men watched him, anxious but maintaining their distance.

The throaty belch of a powerful engine filled Mac's ears, and he stopped short and spun around just as a motorcycle zipped toward him. Rubber squealed as the driver braked hard, tires skipping across the asphalt. The helmeted head turned toward him, the tinted visor reflecting MacGyver's surprised face. A gloved hand raised the visor, and Gorodisch's blue eye winked at him. "Get on!"

Mac straddled the back of the bike, wrapping his right arm around the driver's midriff to keep himself from being flung off as the machine leaped forward. He pulled his long legs up with difficulty as they wove through the traffic, setting his heels on the rear footpegs.

The motorcycle dove through the narrow gap between two cars, disregarding the traffic lines delineated on the blackened road. MacGyver hunched down in the draft of the body in front of him, peering behind them through watering eyes.

The dark sedan swung out into traffic after them, causing pedestrians to dive out of the way.

"They're on our tail!" Mac shouted.

The driver answered by twisting the throttle; the bike lunged forward again. Gorodisch's voice drifted back to Mac's wind-abused ears. "Hold tight!"

MacGyver did, and was glad for the warning as they sped forward at a breakneck speed, whipping past the other vehicles as if they were parked instead of moving briskly along a busy street. Car horns bleated in protest, and shouted invectives were lost under the roar of the motor and wind. The black car was swallowed in the snarl of traffic left in their wake.

MacGyver continued to cling to Gorodisch's leather-clad figure while the motorcycle plunged through alleys, whipped over sidewalks, tore down streets, until the waterfront was far behind them and they were deep in one of the residential sections of the city. Gorodisch cut their speed to a more sensible pace, allowing Mac to shift his grip. Mac took hold of the man's belt with his right hand; his left arm, heavy in plaster, balanced on his knee.

Just about the time MacGyver was drawing in a breath to shout in his ear, Gorodisch turned the cycle into a screened lane. He cut the power and coasted the last few yards; they rolled heavily over a carpet of dry leaves and twigs until they stopped. MacGyver jumped off the bike and followed as it was wheeled behind a fence overhung with ivy. Behind the fence, there was a car.

Gorodisch pulled off his helmet to reveal a mop of sweat-dampened blond hair and a grim smile. "They were waiting for you. Why would they do that? Unless they know what you are really carrying, and how and where – and if that is the case, then we are both going to need passports!"

"Well, mine is in a locker at the ferry... and I don't think they're gonna let me inside to get it." Mac tapped the cast on his arm. "What's in here is too valuable to risk going back and asking nicely."

"I have a few tricks up my sleeve, as well. I have some papers that will work for us, and we can evade the KGB at the airport," Gorodisch said, as he cajoled the little car's engine to life. It roared with unexpected energy, and MacGyver began to suspect that there was something more under the hood than what the manufacturer had originally placed there. "They shouldn't be waiting for us there."

"They shouldn't have been waiting for me at the ferry," MacGyver fidgeted with his cast, watching the scenery slide by sedately as Gorodisch drove. "They must know that the papers that Nat – that _she_ took – were planted. Why else would they be following me?" Realization pulled his face into a long look. "She told them. I can't _believe_ she told them that, too."

Gorodisch glanced at MacGyver, brow arched high as he noted his companion's misery. "You truly cared about her. I am sorry, my friend—this is no business for caring. Everyone is either an asset or an enemy."

"I'm not in _that_ business!" MacGyver bit back. "I'm a courier—_not_ a spy."

"Semantics makes poor armor." The hardness of Gorodisch's reply did not reach his eyes. "The KGB will not make such a distinction if they find you carrying our little secret." Mac ceased fingering the cast. "We must also discard the assumption that they will not risk detaining you. That means we have to get out of the country as discreetly as possible."

"'We'? Of course. She'll have told them about you, too." MacGyver didn't try to hide his bitterness.

"She is Russian," Gorodisch shrugged as if this was all the explanation necessary. "She will do her duty to her family and her country. In that, is she so different from you and your countrymen? Am I?"

MacGyver turned to stare back at him, but found himself uneasy under the man's bemused regard. "I suppose not. I really wouldn't want to be responsible for any pain to her. Or her family." He lifted his chin in a jerk. "Her country can take care of itself!"

Gorodisch let a chuckle escape. "Now you are truly sounding Russian!"

MacGyver snorted. "Whaddya mean _**I**_ sound Russian?"

"A certain combination of philosophical fatalism and gallantry, which I have rarely encountered outside my native soil." Shooting MacGyver a bright grin, he added, "you know… _**Russian**_."

MacGyver's answering snort became a snicker, and Gorodisch's chuckle grew into a guffaw. Soon they were both laughing, their car speeding along the busy avenue leading out of the city toward the Helsinki International Airport.

xoxoxox

The laughter had faded to thoughtful silence long before the traffic swept them along the lane that curved past the airport terminals. Blocky-looking cars squatted on the greensward on either side of the entrance.

"Uh… they don't look like airport security to me," MacGyver drawled.

Gorodisch muttered something Slavic and untranslatable. "It seems we have been checked. Again."

His foot descended on the brake—forcing MacGyver to brace himself against the dashboard to avoid kissing the windshield—and slammed the car into reverse. He reached his arm over the seat and began to navigate the car backwards against oncoming traffic. Car horns shouted in protest, their screams changing pitch as they swerved and spun around to avoid them.

MacGyver winced as two cars collided with each other. "They're following us," he announced, "or rather, they're trying to. People are getting hurt!"

"They will live. A few bumps and bruises, perhaps. We, on the other hand—if captured—can expect a different experience. Hang—" Gorodisch twisted the wheel and the car slewed to one side and reversed 180 degrees. "—on!" Now they were racing down the road forward, against traffic.

MacGyver didn't think this was much of an improvement. "So they're watching the ferries and the airport. What are our other options? We can hardly drive out... backward or forwards!"

Gorodisch grimaced his amusement. "Hardly. We can try to find a private boat—lose ourselves in the Baltic and try to make it to Sweden. Or Estonia—though that might be problematic for you, my friend.

"But we are pointed in the wrong direction for that. We could drive as far as the Russian border—but would also be ill-advised. Unless you can speak Russian. With_out_ an accent?" He rolled his eyes toward MacGyver, who shook his head as he watched out the back window. Gorodisch laughed. "Heh. You can't even speak English without an accent."

"Hey."

"A pity," Gorodisch continued as he yanked the car around to exit the highway, bouncing over curbs and slicing through decorative foliage, "other than language, you could easily pass as Russian."

"What? With my fatalism and philosophical heroism?" MacGyver scoffed. "Think it might take a little more'n that."

Gorodisch squinted at him. "You're right. You'd need a mustache, too. And a haircut."

"Will you be serious? And can I take this ridiculous thing off? I don't think I'm gonna to be quietly flying out through the assisted passenger zone." He lifted his casted arm and wiggled his fingers.

"No time to cut it off." Clusters of residential houses gave way to long meadows and increasingly thick stands of trees. They had left the city behind. "Right now we need to concentrate on finding—"

Gorodisch's words were lost in the scream of tires on gravel as he stood on the brakes. The car fishtailed to a stop in a great cloud of dust.

MacGyver coughed and waved his hand in front of his face, eyes watering. When he could see again, he blinked and gaped, lost for words.

"—an alternate means of transportation!" Gorodisch concluded his sentence, smiling widely.

"You have got to be kidding," MacGyver groaned.


End file.
